Unseen, unheard
by circleofstars
Summary: A job turns out to be completely different to what was expected: young people are going missing, and it seems that something is targeting Sam when he starts behaving strangely in his sleep...
1. In my sleep

**Chapter 1**

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Louise Brandon yawned so wide that she could feel the joints popping in her jaw. She slumped back against the worktop. It had been a long week. She had known it wouldn't be easy, juggling high school with a job at a diner, but this week in particular, it seemed like she was really going under the surface because of the weight of her workload. Still, she couldn't give any of it up, if she was going to succeed in her lifelong ambition of becoming a doctor. She knew she could manage it, but this week was almost enough to test her motivation.

All she wanted was to get home and sleep, but she knew that there was a chapter on the human respiratory system waiting for her on her desk, and she needed to study for an important test. The owner of the diner wandered into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes sleepily. She was a heavy woman with a friendly, open face, and she was a good employer: flexible to Louise's overloaded timetable.

'You heading home now, honey?' she asked, her voice less sharp than usual: she was as exhausted as Louise after such a busy shift.

'Yeah.'

'You gonna walk? It's dark out.'

'I'll be ok.'

The woman walked over and looked Louise in the eye. 'Be careful, alright? I know it's not far, and you take that route every night, but just… be careful.'

'I will.' She smiled sleepily, nodding her leaden head. She waved a hand vaguely as she disappeared out the door.

The street was well lit and wide, and Louise knew it so well that her feet could follow the sidewalk without any intervention from her mind. Her eyes followed the hazy patterns on the concrete formed by the yellow pools of light interspersed with shadows. She hugged her jacket tightly around her, feeling a chill penetrate her clothes.

'Hey, Louise!'

She blinked, and turned slowly to see who had called.

'Hi…?' she said, a hint of a question echoing in the word. _Who are you?_

'I'm Michael. From your biology class, you don't remember?'

'I, uh… oh, yes, of course, Michael…' she ad-libbed frantically. _I'm too tired for this, _thought her fatigued mind.

'You don't know who I am,' he said softly.

'Sorry,' she replied. There was no point in denying it. 'I'm shattered… my brain's just… not working,' she apologised, smiling at him. 'I'll see you tomorrow…' she muttered, turning away, but he went on talking, and she felt that it would be rude to walk off while he was standing there chatting away.

'You're so lucky Louise… you're really smart, and your parents are really supportive… you know? And… everyone really likes you, everyone knows you…'

Louise rolled her shoulders uncomfortably, awkward in this bizarre situation, feeling somehow detached from reality. 'Well, uh… I don't know, I guess I'm just like everyone else,' she mumbled, smiling as politely as she could and backing away. She stopped when she found, unexpectedly, that her limbs would not obey her. The impulses of her brain, telling her feet to step forward, seemed to be lost in transmission. She felt her heart flutter, shocked out of its rhythm.

'You're all so damned lucky…' Michael was saying.

'What did you do?' she asked in horror.

He smiled at her, horribly, his mouth curving hideously while the rest of his face remained frozen. The effect was less than human.

Something broke in her, but she didn't feel a thing.

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Silence reigned in the little room, hanging like an invisible mantle over the narrow twin beds and their inert occupants. It was a cold night, violent outside with rain lashed against the window with fierce winds. The distant roar of detonating endlessly on the roof was somehow muted by the mundane walls, so that it was no more than a buzzing which seemed almost to enhance the stillness, instead of diminishing it.

Dean Winchester was sprawled on his front, one hand clutching determinedly at some unseen object beneath his head, breathing slowly and regularly. His mind was blissfully blank, indulging in complete idleness after an exhausting few days' hunting. He could be fully awake and alert within a fraction of a second, if it became necessary, but for the moment, he was dead to the world.

Sam Winchester, on the other hand, was not blessed with such an efficient on-off switch as his brother, and his slumber was fitful, uneven, unreliable, and frequently plagued by dreams. Curled on his side, blankets twisted around his feet, Sam was sleeping deeply, but his eyes moved constantly, flickering under his eyelids, immersed in some illusion from which the rest of the world was excluded.

The stillness was broken when Sam began to wriggle in his sleep, but he remained quiet enough that Dean did not wake. The first rays of morning woke him.

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Dean sat up, squinting against the early sunlight which streamed in as Sam pulled up the blind. He groaned as the unexpected light stung his eyes, and Sam muttered something about vampires that he didn't catch, but he assumed was it was impolite and therefore responded with a scowl.

'You sleep well?' he asked his brother. It had become a tradition in the mornings, Dean's way of expressing concern over Sam's minimalist approach to sleep.

'Yeah,' Sam responded, without concentrating. It was one of those questions, like 'How are you?' – You don't think about exactly how you _are _feeling at that moment in time, you just say, 'Fine, thanks.'

'Did you dream?' Dean asked, with a slight guarded quality in his voice. OK, so maybe he _had _noticed something.

'No,' Sam answered automatically, but then he reflected. 'Yes. Maybe, I don't know.' He had a feeling that he _had_ dreamed, but it wasn't clear in his head. Usually, his nightmares haunted him, their images flashing through his mind like photographs in his memory. But this was a vague picture, fleeing from him even as he tried to recollect it, falling away like water through a sieve.

'That wasn't supposed to be one of the, uh, great unanswerable questions, Sammy,' Dean commented, looking at him sideways with raised eyebrows and amused eyes. 'Just making conversation.'

Sam scowled at him, sitting down heavily onto his bed, rubbing his hands across his eyes. It irritated him that the dream had fallen out of his mind so completely, but after a few minutes, he dismissed the thought. If it was an important dream, he would have remembered it.

'Was that graffiti here when we arrived, Sammy? 'Cause it looks a hell of a lot like your handwriting,' Dean asked, frowning.

'What?' Sam looked around to see his brother studying the wall above the bed, where a determined hand had traced thick dark letters with a black pen. It was, undoubtedly, new, and it was definitely Sam's writing.

'You're taking up writing on the walls in your sleep? Jesus, Sammy… first it was walking, then it was talking, then it was _singing…_ if this continues, we're going to have to start getting separate rooms…'

'I _sing _in my sleep?' Sam asked, temporarily distracted.

'You haven't for a while… you went through a phase of it, when you were about 12… drove me crazy. You really can't carry a tune.'

'I bet I wasn't that bad…. What did I sing?'

Dean made a face. 'A mixture of things… Mariah Carey, mostly. It was horrible.'

Sam looked at him critically. 'I don't believe you…' he muttered.

'Yeah? Prove I'm lying.'

Sam paused for a moment, trying. 'You're a jerk,' he told his brother eventually in exasperation. Dean smirked, and wandered off into the bathroom, leaving Sam alone. His eyes fell on the words inscribed above his bed, like an epitaph.

'What did you do?'

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They had been passing through, driving aimlessly while they waited for a new job to manifest itself, when Sam had read that three or four local people had reported 'strange sounds' in the woods around the town, and one had added that they saw a dark shape. Sam reasoned that they had nothing better to do, so they might as well check it out. Dean thought they were probably hallucinating, and that it was a waste of time which would be better spent playing pool, flirting, and sleeping. But, despite that, he wasn't about to let Sam check anything out on his own, after his little escapade in Minnesota.

When they were both ready, they checked out of the motel, hoping that the owner would either not notice or not care about the writing on the wall. The woods were heavily shadowed by thick trees, which might, conceivably, make them seem spooky in the middle of the night. Any number of things could have been the source of the strange noises, and excitable campers with overactive imaginations were perfectly capable of seeing things that weren't there.

In order to take his mind off the elusive dream and unexplained graffiti of the night before, Sam threw himself enthusiastically into the dead-end hunt, ignoring his brother's complaints. Every time Dean protested that it was clearly nothing and they should go back, Sam argued that it could be just a little further into the woods, and kept walking.

'Sam, what is it? I really don't think there's anything going on here.'

'How can you know that? Just a bit further…'

Dean stopped stubbornly, looking critically at his brother. 'You haven't had a vision about this or anything, have you?'

'No… I just… think we should be thorough…'

'Yeah, sure, thorough, but there are limits, Sam! I'm pretty damn sure I've already walked past that tree three or four times…'

'It's the same as all the other trees. Look,' he produced a laminated map of the woods, which seemed to consist largely of vast green spaces divided by faint red lines which marked hikers' trails. 'We've been following this path all the way from the road.'

Dean looked around him in confusion. 'This is a path?' he asked, in genuine surprise. No gap in the undergrowth suggested that there was a marked trail in the vicinity.

'Of course this is… a… path…' Sam answered, sounding less and less certain as he continued the sentence and looked at the area they were standing in.

'Are we lost?' Dean asked, controlled anger lending a strange quality to his voice.

'Possibly,' Sam conceded, folding up the map dejectedly. 'I'm sorry…' he muttered.

Dean slumped, suddenly lacking the energy to throw a temper tantrum. 'It's ok… I guess we'll just go back the way we came…' he said, setting off in a random direction which Sam could not have distinguished from any of the other possibilities.

Despite Dean's confidence, the route he had chosen did not lead them back to the car, and when night fell, they found themselves still standing among bracken and thick tree trunks, in another clearing exactly the same as a thousand others that they had passed or possible the same one that they had passed a thousand times.

There was no cell reception.

'Typical.'

Sam looked at his brother, his dark eyes appealing to him for a solution. Dean always struggled to resist that look.

'Don't give me that, Sammy. It's _your_ fault we're lost.'

'If we keep going, in the dark, we're only going to get… lost –er'

'Lost-er? We've been going for hours, in broad daylight, and thanks to your map reading skills, I don't think we could _get_ much loster.'

Eventually, they settled down on the uneven ground to sleep until morning clarified their surroundings, in the vague hope that the path would appear overnight. When they woke, their surroundings looked much the same, except for one thing: carved on a tree with the point of a hunting knife, in awkward, pointy letters:

'I didn't mean to leave you'

'Well,' Sam argued, 'it was dark; we wouldn't necessarily have noticed if it was already there.'

Dean raised a sceptical eyebrow. 'Yeah, right.'

'You think I wrote it?'

Dean said nothing, but rolled his shoulders and spread his hands in a gesture which said_ I don't know, but it seems most likely._

'I didn't dream,' Sam protested, and then, once again, cast his mind back to verify his statement and found himself uncertain. 'I… don't think so, anyway…' He leaned back against the tree, masking the unexplained writing with his body. 'Why would I write that, anyway? The messages don't seem connected… "What did you do?" and then "I didn't mean to leave you." I suppose the second could be an answer to the first, but it doesn't really… follow on.'

Dean shrugged, trying but not really succeeding to look as if he wasn't concerned. 'Something weird is going on,' he offered lamely.

_Yeah, right, _thought Sam,_ we should make that our family motto. _

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Hmm, not sure where this is going, I'm finding this idea quite hard to commit to paper. Some reviews would be great – even some suggestions! What do you see happening? I don't promise to follow up on all or any of them, but they'd help to inspire me!


	2. Worth more than this

**Unseen, Unheard**

**Chapter 2**

Sam was in a bad mood.

The first reason for this was the fact that they had woken up in the same area in which they had gone to sleep, and it still offered no clues as to which direction was preferable to the others.

The second reason was that he had once again woken up beneath a cryptic message which he must have written, though he had no recollection of doing so.

The third reason was that Dean was maintaining that their situation was all Sam's fault, and Sam had a nasty suspicion that his brother might be right.

The fourth reason was that he had a blister on his left heel and it hurt like hell.

But the fifth and most immediate reason was that it was raining.

Not just drizzling, but absolutely bucketing down with heavy, icy droplets, which splashed onto his head and dripped off his long hair into his eyes. His clothes, too battered to be water-resistant, if they ever had been, were soaked through, and they hung on him uncomfortably, heavy with water. His feet squelched unpleasantly inside his boots. The tall trees which surrounded them, instead of offering any shelter, seemed to allow the water to pool on their waxy leaves in order to release a shower of droplets when the Winchesters passed underneath, always aimed directly for the back of Sam's neck.

Squinting through the gloom, he trudged on, following the blurry image of Dean's back, which was just about visible through the grey veil of water.

Eventually, the endless trees were bisected by a narrow stream.

'Well, that's new,' Dean commented.

'We should follow it,' Sam suggested, 'that way at least we'll know we're not going in circles.'

Dean shrugged and nodded. He didn't have a better idea. 'Which way?'

'Follow the stream,' Sam repeated.

'Yeah, ok, but which way? Up or down?'

Sam looked both ways like a well-drilled child crossing a busy road. 'Toss a coin?' he suggested.

'No, you choose… maybe your Shining will guide you,' Dean proposed.

Sam glared at him. He didn't want to talk about his 'Shining'. He stood sulking for a few minutes, but Dean did nothing but stand and watch him with wide, impatient eyes. Sam stormed off upstream, taking long strides and hacking violently at the obstructing undergrowth. Dean followed him smirking at Sam's angry retreating back.

It didn't improve Sam's mood when his toe caught on a root and he fell face first into the stream. Dean jogged up to help him, trying to keep his face straight as his brother raged wordlessly at the world in general.

'Look at it this way, Sammy: you couldn't get much wetter,' he said brightly, helping Sam to his feet with a wide grin.

Sam scowled at him fiercely, but found suddenly that he wanted to laugh, and his black temper had melted away. However, when he turned to his brother with a comeback, he found that Dean's attention had been distracted. He was looking past Sam, staring fixedly into the clear water. There were traces of pink in it, diluted a thousand times by the movement of the stream and the ferocious raindrops which shattered its smooth surface. The colour was faint, but unmistakeable. Dean splashed upstream, following the faint, wavering trail.

Sam wasn't sure he wanted to see the source of the trail, but his eye was drawn to it, and he followed his brother up the shallow waterway, moving more slowly and carefully, conscious of the slippery and treacherous footing and unwilling to explore it again with his face.

Dean waded through the knee-deep freezing water, watching the pink threads thicken and darken as he moved upstream. A heavy knot of foreboding grew in his stomach, and he swallowed hard, bracing himself for whatever he was about to see.

It was a girl, lying face up in the shallow water at the edge of the stream, her long red-dyed hair rippling with the current in long, melancholy strands. Her eyes were open a crack, and she looked surprised. The fading touch of summer had left a honey-coloured blush on her cheeks and throat, which made her seem warm even though she lay inert in freezing water. The blood in the water seemed to have come from the small scrapes on her arms and face which looked as though they had been inflicted as she was dragged through the woods to this resting place. However, taking a reluctant step nearer to her, he found that her mouth was stained scarlet, and blood had left a thick trail down the side of her face as it bubbled up between her lips and trickled down into the stream.

He heard Sam gasp softly as he walked up behind his brother. Dean stood unmoving, staring at the body with expressionless eyes. Someone or something would have to pay the price for her life, he thought, and life wasn't cheap. Life was worth more than this.

Sam's fingers plucked at his jacket urgently, in an imploring way that they hadn't used in a long while.

'Dean…'

Dean turned, meeting his brother's panicked eyes.

'What? Are you ok?'

'I feel like I've seen her before.'

Dean frowned. It was only strange if you didn't know Sam. To him, the next question was obvious. 'Did you dream about her?'

'Maybe. I don't remember…' Sam's face was anguished. It was worse than usual. He still hadn't come to terms with the whole idea of having visions, but now he felt that he should know what had happened to the girl, he should be able to avenge her but he couldn't grasp the memory. It was beyond frustrating. It seemed almost as if he had failed the dead girl before him in some way; failed to remember what had happened to her. As if she had reached out to him for help and he had ignored her. He twisted his hands together absently, appealing silently to Dean with his eyes.

Dean knew that look. He couldn't deny an answer to that look. 'Ok…' he began, thinking frantically, his mind one word ahead of his mouth. 'We need to get out of this forest. We'll report her death to the authorities so that her family can have the body for burial. Then we'll… look into it.'

Sam blinked hard, and nodded.

'We can't be that far from the town… if the killer dragged her out here…' Dean guessed, glancing around. The undergrowth was flattened and pulled up in some areas, and on closer inspection he realised that there was a trail leading away from the stream. The trail left by the girl's body dragged unceremoniously across the ground. He followed the trail with his eyes. There was only one logical destination it could lead to. It seemed wrong, somehow, to be grateful for something that had been caused by the girl's death. But still, he was filled with relief.

'You see that, Sam?' he asked, his face relaxing into something that was almost a smile. 'Something we haven't seen in a while. A path.'

Sam grinned, shaking his head and pretending to be pissed. 'Yeah, well, there were a whole lot of paths on that map that didn't really exist.'

'There's a whole lot of crap in your head that doesn't really exist,' Dean muttered in reply, just loud enough for Sam to hear him. He smirked.

Sam heard, but chose to ignore the comment, telling himself that it wasn't because he didn't have a comeback.

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The police thanked them politely for the intelligence, but added that they would have to stay in town and make themselves available for further questioning. Dean had enough experience to gather that the unspoken message was: _We're not arresting you yet, but you're officially a suspect._

The Winchester's were mildly surprised to find that the town they found themselves in when they emerged from the woods was the same one that they had started in. However, they were also pleased to discover that the town offered more than one cheap motel: they figured that the owner had probably found Sam's graffiti by now, and so they were reluctant to check back into the same establishment.

The next morning, after a night blessedly undisturbed by weird dreams or cryptic messages, Sam read in the newspaper that the dumped body had been identified as high-school student Louise Brandon. The article was short, as there was really nothing to report beyond the fact that she was dead: the police had no idea who had done it. The coroner had yet to make a full investigation, but his early assessment, according to the paper, was that she had bled to death from internal wounds, although he had no theory about how they had been inflicted.

The brothers headed to the high school, in the hope that some of Louise's friends would be able to shed some light on what had happened to her. The school was a vast, ugly, concrete-and-plastic building, occupying a spacious site on the edge of town.

'Well?' Sam asked, looking in dismay at the students who milled around the school site, seemingly in thousands. 'Who do we talk to first?'

The students manifested the usual teenage blend of pristine fashion, edgy 'individualism' and scruffy jeans, the majority belonging to the last category. Louise had been pretty, but the lack of smudged makeup on her corpse suggested to Dean that the preening young ladies who simpered in one corner of the quad were not her crowd. He scanned the crowded yard, and settled eventually on a mixed group of students sitting casually on the grass, mostly chatting, but one or two were actually working.

'Excuse me?' Dean began, trying to sound official and charming at the same time. It wasn't easy. Authority figures, in his experience, were rarely charming. 'I'm sorry to ask, but – did any of you know Louise Brandon?'

The teenagers' conversation lapsed abruptly into silence. A few members of the group glanced at one individual, a girl with short blonde plaits who wore a pale, shell-shocked expression and clutched a book tightly to her chest. She stood up slowly, and nodded, looking at Dean with haunted eyes.

'Yeah, we all knew her. She was…' she rolled her narrow shoulders awkwardly, reluctant to voice a cliché, but unable to find an alternative way to say it. 'She was my best friend,' she said finally.

'I'm sorry,' Dean said, and meant it. The girl's dull, mourning eyes were one of the saddest things he could remember seeing. 'We have to ask you guys… whether Louise ever said or did anything… strange… before she died?'

The girl looked surprised, but she frowned, thinking. 'Nothing that I remember. Just another day, you know? I spoke to her on the phone earlier on the evening she disappeared, and she was fine. Tired, and pissed off about our biology test… but normal. Then she had to work. The police reckon that she must have been abducted on her way back from work, 'cause her employer said she left the diner, but her parents said she never got home.' The girl's voice broke slightly on the final phrase, and she blinked hard, brushing away the single tear which had escaped with the back of an impatient hand.

'Where did she work?' Sam asked softly, stepping forward so that he stood shoulder to shoulder with Dean.

'At the diner on the main street.'

'Thanks.'

She nodded. Sam turned to leave: she didn't know anything.

Dean paused for a moment. 'Listen… if you hear of anything… unusual… going on, just… let us know, ok? Tell your friends.'

'OK,' she agreed, blinking her tears away until her eyes returned to the calm, miserable state that they had been in to start with.

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Nobody at the diner had noticed anything strange either. Dean was beginning to suspect that her death had been the work of an ordinary person, although he was still mystified by the nature of her injuries: how could you bleed internally without _any _external damage?

Sam, on the other hand, was convinced that something supernatural must be involved. He was still plagued with the nagging presence of the half-remembered dream. He was certain that Louise was connected to whatever had happened in the dream, so it followed that she was also connected to the messages he had found upon waking. Perhaps she had been trying to reach out with her mind and call for help.

They walked back to the Impala in the high school parking lot after visiting the diner and asking around in the town. School was finishing, so the quad was once again flooded with students on their way home. At the top of the steps, in front of the school doors, Dean caught sight of one of Louise's friends, pointing him and Sam out to a skinny kid in a battered black T-shirt. He paused next to the Impala as the boy hurried towards them.

'Hi,' the teen greeted them breathlessly as he approached. 'Emma said…' he paused, doubtfully. 'Are you guys cops or something? Emma said I should tell you if I'd seen anything weird.'

'We're…' Sam reflected. He tried to avoid lying wherever possible. 'We're looking into Louise Brandon's death.'

'Oh, right. Well… I don't know, this isn't really related.'

Dean stepped in quickly before the kid could turn away. 'Tell us anyway. It might be connected.'

'OK…' He stood awkwardly, hands thrust deep into his pockets, eyes fixed on the ground between his feet. 'Well… there was another guy who went missing, couple days after Louise. And… Monday after school I heard him talking to someone in the hallway. I didn't… go up to them… 'cause I didn't really get on with this guy. Philip, his name was. He was a football player. Thought he was God's gift.'

Dean noted the use of the past tense. 'So… you heard them talking…?' he prompted.

'Yeah. Him and some other guy. I didn't recognise the other guy's voice, but that doesn't mean anything. It's a big school. The guy I didn't know… was pissed off, said something like Philip had abandoned him? Sounded like they used to be friends, but then Philip stopped talking to him. Philip was acting like he didn't have a clue who the guy was, but then he changed… like, all at once, to saying he was sorry. "I didn't mean to leave you," he said, and it was like he was begging. Then I didn't hear anything else, and now this guy, Philip, is missing. I don't know, I thought there might be a connection. I thought it was weird.'

Dean frowned, thinking. 'Thanks,' he muttered, nodding appreciatively at the kid in front of him. 'That's… probably important.'

The kid scampered off hurriedly, merging quickly into the crowd of teenagers.

The Winchesters exchanged looks, both frowning in concentration.

_Yes, _thought Sam, _Something weird is definitely going on._

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_Review, please, please, you know you want to! Doesn't that purple button look inviting? _


	3. Don't believe in coincidences

**Unseen, Unheard**

**Chapter 3**

Slumped in the stationary Impala, the brothers reflected in silence on the evidence so far. Eventually, Dean turned, sighing, to his brother with a question in his eyes. He shrugged, biting his lip in a gesture that plainly said: _Well, I'm baffled, have you got any ideas? _

Sam shrugged, frowning. The kid's words had set alarm bells ringing in his ears. _I didn't mean to leave you, he said, and it was like he was begging. _

_I didn't mean to leave you._

The same words that he had found carved inexpertly into the damp bark of a tree. When he had first read them, they had seemed like his own words, words that he should have said, but never had. Now, he realised, they were not his words at all, but the words of the missing football player, Philip. He wondered where the first message had come from. 'What did you do?' Maybe they had been Philip's words as well, but he didn't think so. He suspected that they had been Louise's.

'We need to check the town records for… unpopular high school students who have died, I guess. Suicides, maybe,' Sam suggested, hating how calmly he could discuss the possibility that a teenager had felt so neglected that he took his own life. It seemed the most likely possibility, though: a student who felt overlooked by his peers, driven to death and now back to take vengeance on those who had never noticed him.

'Another library?' Dean asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Sam grinned brightly at him: there was nothing like one of his brother's sulks to improve his mood.

'Yup'

Dean gave him a look which was supremely unimpressed. Sam returned it with an innocent smile. Growling, Dean started up the engine, and reluctantly set a course for the library.

The size of the school became a disadvantage when it came to the records. Unhelpfully, the records were sorted only in alphabetical order, so there was no way of telling where to look first. The only option was to trawl through the records one by one, systematically, until they found one which was suitable.

'It's the 21st freakin' century! Shouldn't these damn things be on a computer?' Dean demanded in frustration, after half an hour's fruitless search.

'Apparently not,' Sam replied calmly. The work was dull, but it felt good to sit back and relax for a change, and he felt the heavy certainty of dusty books oddly comforting. He felt almost sleepy, slumped in the chair. The thought almost made him laugh: he imagined Dean's face if he found that Sam had dropped off when he was supposed to be working.

After another hour, however, when their search had still yielded no results, even Sam was beginning to wilt. His eyelids weighed twenty pounds each, he was sure. It would be so easy just to slip away into sleep.

'Come on, Sam. We've looked at all the relevant records. Maybe you're just barking up the wrong tree.'

'There's a load more we haven't looked at, Dean, sorry to break it to ya.'

'But these are like… 20years ago. No way were these people at school the same time as Louise and Philip.'

'It's possible that the spirit is associating them with people from its own time. It might not have known them personally, it could be… sort of assigning roles to them.'

Dean looked sideways at his brother, wondering if his lecture was just an excuse to stay in the goddamn library for another hour. He scowled fiercely. Sam blinked at him, and he realised that his brother was half asleep.

'Yeah, whatever, Sam. Still, we haven't had much sleep recently and it's late. This can wait until tomorrow.'

Sam opened his mouth to protest but found that he lacked the energy, and he was grateful for the escape clause Dean offered. However, even as he nodded and stood up, he felt a pang of guilt. _What if there's another one that I can't help? _he thought. Pushing the thought determinedly aside, he followed his brother out of the dimly lit, silent building.

As soon as Dean pulled away from the space outside the library, Sam was slumped in the passenger seat, leaning back, with his eyes closed. He was mildly impressed at the speed with which his little brother had dropped off. After a few seconds' thought, he glanced back at Sam, a worried expression in his eyes.

'Sammy, I swear, if you write on my car…' he left the sentence unfinished, as a vague threat. Still, he flicked his eyes over to his little brother whenever he judged it safe to take them off the road, and carefully scanned the immediate area to make sure that there were no pens available.

Sam raised an arm with exaggerated slowness, index finger extended. He traced letters with his finger in the condensation on the window. Wide eyed and intrigued, Dean watched his brother's actions so closely that the car swayed dangerously along the road, holding his breath in anticipation

'I'm not asleep,' Sam wrote.

His apparently sleeping face twitched, curving up at the corners into a self-satisfied smile.

Dean poked is brother hard in the ribs. 'Not cool, Sammy.'

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The next morning, the local paper proclaimed that a second body had been recovered: that of Philip Basing, high school football player and beloved son, brother, boyfriend. Sorely missed.

The body showed the same confusing signs as Louise's had done. Extreme pallor which indicated death from blood loss, but no sign of any serious wound. Bleeding from the mouth, as if something had been torn apart inside. Dragged out into the tangle of woods which clung to the edges of the town, and left to rot.

Sam was distracted when Dean came in, brandishing the newspaper and pointing out that they were right: Louise and Philip were both victims of the same thing. He had read halfway through the relevant article before he realised that Sam wasn't listening.

'Sam! Dead body, in the woods, ringing any bells here?'

Sam didn't answer, he was staring at his bed sheet with empty, haunted eyes.

'Sam!'

Dean walked round the bed to see what was holding his brother's attention, and inhaled sharply.

After an indefinite pause, he let out a long breath, hissing through his teeth. 'Again?' he asked softly.

Sam grimaced, half shrugged, then nodded. 'Do you think it's killed someone else?'

'Hmm?' It wasn't really the question that Dean had been expecting to hear.

'You didn't notice? The words I wrote on that tree… Philip Basing said them, before he died.'

Dean looked stunned. He hadn't noticed. 'How do you know?'

'That kid told us. "I didn't mean to leave you, he said, and it was like he was begging." That's what I wrote on the tree: "I didn't mean to leave you".'

Dean looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment, and Sam wondered whether his brother's assumptions about the message had been the same as his own: that the words were Sam's, an apology.

'So, you think that… your night time graffiti… is the victims trying to contact you? Or the killer?'

'I don't know,' Sam replied, looking extremely dejected. 'I just wish I could remember what happened.'

'Sam, you don't _know_ what happened. Don't blame yourself for something you can't help,' Dean instructed him, in an impatient, brusque voice which indicated clearly that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over.

Sam was silent for a few seconds, wondering whether to voice his thoughts or not. When he eventually spoke, his voice was soft and hesitant, reminiscent of the twelve year old he had once been.

'I dreamt about them… I think I dreamed their deaths. But as soon as I wake up, it just… slips away. I can't hold on to them. When we found the body, Louise was really familiar. I know I dreamed about her, but I don't know what happened. Or what killed her.'

Dean sat down heavily on his bed, looking at the carpet between his feet to avoid his brother's gaze. Eventually, he looked up, and his eyes met Sam's. They were filled with a strange mixture of resignation and determination.

'We'll find it. If you remember anything useful…' he shrugged. 'Let me know.'

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Michael Andover sat cross-legged on his bed, staring fixedly at his unadorned grey wall. The room was bare and Spartan, showing no sign of individuality. Anyone who saw it without its occupant would have guessed that it was a motel room, belonging to no one in particular. It didn't look like a room that was lived in.

And yet Michael had been here as long as he could remember, in this town, this building, this room. The woman who ran the institution had tried very hard to be a parent for him. When he had first arrived as an infant, she had consoled his endless wailing with the gentleness of her arms and the warmth of her embrace, and she had watched him grow, talking to him, providing for him, looking out for him. She had known him almost as long as his mother would have done, had she not perished when he was less than a year old.

And yet, she still couldn't really see him as a son. When he had arrived, his distress had been inevitable, and she wouldn't have expected any sign of affection from him. But as the years went on, and he still wouldn't connect with her, although he claimed not to remember the night he lost his parents, the weak explanation of his traumatic past seemed insufficient to explain his indifferent detachment from humanity.

It wasn't that Michael didn't appreciate her, he thought, as he sat bolt upright on the bed. He knew that a lot of orphanages would be far worse. But her kindness provoked no reaction in him, and he could see all too clearly that, despite her efforts, she had never come to love him.

Vividly aware of this lack of feeling, he grew up with a void in his life, and a bitter hatred of all those at school who had these comforts and failed to appreciate their luck. His cold detachment made him unpopular, and naturally this added to his feeling of isolation. It was a vicious circle, and one whose end would inevitably be in a spiral into misery and loneliness.

Nearly a year ago, he had found that he was quite right in his suspicion that he was different to other people. He was capable of things that other people thought of as fairy stories. The abilities were erratic, he could only control them on rare occasions, but he hoped that with practice, they could become very useful.

Then, only a month ago, he had been visited secretly by a young woman with short blonde hair. She hadn't given a name, but she had known his name, and used it intimately, caressing the sounds of his nondescript label with her gentle tongue. He hadn't trusted her initially: he never trusted anyone.

She confirmed his suspicion that he was special. She told him that she and her family had been looking for him for a long time, and that he could be a treasured part of their community. She offered him a home, a family, and the opportunity to bring his abilities under control and become still more powerful.

He was seduced, but a life of trusting nobody inspired him to check, nevertheless, for the catch.

'What do you want from me?' he had asked, humbly, breathlessly.

'Sam Winchester'

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At the high school, the brothers found Emma and her group of friends gathered in the same grassy spot that they had colonised the day before.

'Hey,' Sam asked breathlessly, addressing the forlorn young woman who had spoken to them the day before. 'Do you know where we can find that kid we spoke to yesterday? He didn't say what his name was… about this high, black t-shirt, skinny…'

'I know who you mean,' Emma replied hoarsely, in a voice shattered by suppressed misery. 'He's…not here.'

'What?'

'Nobody's seen him, since last night.'

'Nobody… at all?'

'Not even his parents.'

Stunned, the brothers walked away. Back in the Impala, they exchanged looks.

'Do you think it knows that he spoke to us?' Sam asked, his voice sounding awkward, his words half strangled in his tense throat.

Dean shrugged helplessly. 'I don't believe in coincidences,' he said.

Sam bit his lip, screwing up his face in frustration. They still had no leads which seemed likely to reveal the identity of the killer. The thing continued to strike, and they were still none the wiser. Even worse, for Sam, was the knowledge that he _should _know exactly who was responsible. He wondered whether he would recognise the culprit if he saw it, as he had recognised Louise.

Dean spoke hesitantly, as if reluctant to break the silence. 'So… do you reckon that what you wrote on the sheet last night… was something that the kid said, before it killed him?' He fixed his eyes on the steering wheel as he spoke, but swung his eyes up to meet Sam's when an answer was slow in coming.

Sam nodded; his throat was feeling too dry to speak. The untidy letters of the various messages reformed themselves in his mind's eye.

_What did you do?_

_I didn't mean to leave you._

_Did you kill them?_

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_I promise something more exciting will happen in future chapters. : ) At the moment I'm just setting the scene. Stay with me, it gets better!_

_Review, please! Please! Look at that friendly purple (or black ; ) for angel679)_ _button. _


	4. Did you kill them?

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 4**

'So, what do we do now?'

Dean was startled by the question, and he took a while to answer. Honestly, he had no idea what they should do now: he had been about thirty seconds away from asking the same question himself. But Sam's voice was so helpless, so utterly lost, and childlike, that he felt compelled to provide an answer. Desperately, he sought some convincing answer in the blank volumes of his mind, cursing himself for the inability to disappoint Sam with an 'I don't know'.

'We could… go back to the library and look through the rest of the records… maybe we missed something. Or, maybe not, 'cause we weren't really getting anywhere with that idea. We could talk to people around the school, see if anyone knows anything.' He paused, out of ideas, and changed tactics. 'We're gonna find out what's going on, Sam. Don't let it get to you.'

Sam sighed heavily, grimacing down at the backs of his hands. 'Yeah, I know. It's just… really frustrating. I should know… but I can't remember.'

'Well, look at it this way: there's no sensible reason why you should know. Any normal person wouldn't…'

'But…'

Sam trailed off, seemingly without anything to follow that up with. 'Do you want me to take the library, and you can talk to the students?'

Dean grinned. 'That's the best plan you've come up with in a _long_ time,' he replied, laughing.

Sam pretended to scowl, but he was grateful for the opportunity to spend some time alone in the quiet of the library, to think everything through.

Dean climbed out of the car, and leaned down to talk to Sam through the window.

'I'll see you back at the motel room, right? And- ,'

'Yeah, yeah, I know. Take care of the car.'

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Louise's friend Emma discreetly disappeared when she saw him coming, and Dean couldn't really blame her. For one thing, it had plainly been a struggle for her when she first spoke to them, with the memory of her friend's horrible death so fresh and raw in her mind. Quite apart from that, and more to the point, the last person who had given them any useful information had paid for it by becoming next on the list. He caught sight of her thin back vanishing behind a door, and decided not to follow. She had helped a lot already, and he felt that she deserved her peace.

Instead, he went in search of Philip Basing's friends: presumably, the football team. Without having seen Philip, it could have been difficult to find people who knew him in such a huge, sprawling building, but the distinctive red and yellow jackets proudly worn by the team members made them easy to pick out.

The corridors were unremarkable and crowded, lined with lockers and battered advertising posters, like the hallways of any high school anywhere. Dean had attended a variety of schools in his life, as his father's unusual lifestyle had resulted in constant moving, but all had seemed more or less the same, and the years had melded them in his memory into one school, one set of cliques, and one labyrinth of locker-lined hallways.

The red and yellow jackets stood in a closed circle, laughing loudly and self-consciously taking care to look 'cool' as they lounged against the lockers. One or two had petite cheerleaders leaning against them adoringly, wearing their cute uniforms as a mark of status. Clearly, this was the elite among cliques.

'Hey,' Dean said loudly, elbowing his way into the exclusive circle. The red and yellow jackets looked at him with identical expressions of disdainful confusion, questioning his right to be talking to them, to be in the hallway, and possibly even to exist. Dean smiled back at them impudently, affecting not to notice their objection.

'I'm looking for people who might have known Philip Basing,' he said, figuring that he might as well jump straight in and get it over with as soon as possible. He watched their faces change from disdain to guarded mistrust.

'Who are you?' said one.

Dean produced an ID from a deep pocket of his jacket and held it up for their inspection, trying to look professional and competent rather than smug.

'What do you want to know?' asked another. The tone was still interrogative, even though he had proved himself to be an authority figure. These people were used to being looked up to, and they expected it from adults as well as their peers. Dean rebelled inwardly against his own thought labelling him an adult.

'Just anything you can think of. Anyone with a grudge against Philip, or… uh, anything weird he might have said or done before he died… Anyone strange hanging around the school…'

'Besides you?'

Dean steeled himself, and carefully ignored the comment.

'Look man,' offered one of the guys, a dark haired youth taller than Sam, with an open face that suggested that he might have marginally less ego and more brain then the rest of the group, making him just about human. 'He was just another guy, you know? No enemies, nothing weird. He just… disappeared.'

Dean nodded, biting back the sarcastic reply before it could leave his lips. _Trying to be helpful but… just… not succeeding…_

The boy who had spoken first opened his mouth again, tilting back his head as he spoke so that his over-long hair fell out of his eyes. _How do you play football if you can't see past your hair?_ Dean wondered idly, waiting impatiently for the kid to form coherent words.

'Hey, Phil was a football player, ya know? He had a whole lot of people who were jealous of him; maybe you should check them out…'

Dean doubted that this would turn out to be an important lead, but he figured that his masquerade as a cop would be strengthened if he attempted to show some interest.

'Any names in particular?' he asked. It took great effort not to sound bored.

'Uh… no, not really. Just, like, people, you know?'

_Oh, thank you, please, try to be less helpful…_

'And, hey, what about his last girlfriend. Sadie. She was one crazy bitch…'

Dean abruptly ran out of patience. 'Yeah, well, thanks a lot for your time,' he said, and turned sharply away.

'Fuckin' cops,' one of them muttered as he walked away.

'I thought he was cute!'

'Oh my god, yes, me too!'

Dean grinned; the shrill, excitable voices of the cheerleaders improved his mood greatly as he left the school with absolutely no useful information. He could only hope Sam was doing better.

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Sam jerked awake in his chair and blinked, hard. He squirmed guiltily in his chair for having fallen asleep and reflexively glanced around the room as if worried that somebody had seen him who would report him to Dean. He couldn't understand why he was so tired. Hadn't he got enough sleep last night?

Suddenly nervous, he studied the desk in front of him, the chair, the wall and the papers, scrutinising every inch of space within his reach for any new message. When he found nothing, he realised he had been holding his breath and he exhaled loudly in relief.

Wearily, he turned his attention back to the endless files and records in front of him. They seemed to be, quite literally, without end.

He leaned back in his chair and picked u the next sheet, scanned it carefully, and moved on. Every sheet was laid out in the same pattern. He wondered idly whether he would notice if he found what he was looking for, or just skim read it without absorbing any information and automatically discard it. It seemed that his powers of academic concentration had diminished almost to nothing in the time since he left.

He shifted awkwardly in the chair struggling to find a comfortable position. Rolling his shoulders, he took up the next sheet. No, still nothing.

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Sam had taken the Impala with him to the library, so Dean was left with no choice but to wander back to the motel room on foot. He was in no particular hurry, as he doubted Sam would be finished at the library for a while yet, so he took a detour to explore the town a bit. It didn't take him long to get thoroughly lost in the unfamiliar tangle of streets.

He realised it was the second time he had been lost this week, and, irritatingly, this time he couldn't claim that it was Sam's fault.

He stood still for a moment to get his bearings and estimated that the motel was more or less in _that_ direction, so maybe if he followed that alleyway then he would be able to guess his way from there. Hindered by his gender, he stubbornly refused to ask for directions.

He strode down the street, trying to give the impression that he knew exactly where he was going and didn't need any help. He was so preoccupied with this task that he didn't notice the kid approaching until he was right in front of him. Then he blinked, hard, to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was.

'Hey,' he said, flinching back in surprise. 'We thought you were missing… shouldn't you be at school?'

The skinny kid shrugged awkwardly. His guilty eyes betrayed him. _Yes, I should be at school…_

'Your friend… Emma? She said your parents haven't seen you…'

'Mrs Stoke? She's not my mother. I was at a friend's house last night.'

Dean raised a hand in a vague, friendly gesture which was supposed to indicate 'don't worry about it.' 'Hey, I'm not gonna report you. Just pleased you haven't turned up dead.'

'Do you know what got them yet?' he asked eagerly.

Dean frowned. The kid's voice was morbidly curious, not remotely concerned. 'Ah… no, not yet.'

'Good,' he replied, under his breath. Dean's frown deepened: he didn't think he had been supposed to hear. He tried to take a step back, but for some reason his intention didn't seem to register with the muscles in his leg, which didn't move.

Dean never knew whether the kid had an accomplice come up behind him and smack him over the head, or if he somehow rendered him unconscious with the freaky power of his mind. Either way, everything turned white, he woke up somewhere else with no memory of how he got there, and with a headache that felt like someone was trying to drill a hole in his skull. What with everything that happened afterwards, he never thought to look for a bruise.

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At last, the end was in sight. After all these hours, Sam was finally beginning to see a noticeable decrease in the size of the heap of papers. It was nearly six.

He flicked through the last few files with even less concentration than he had allocated to the previous ones, already halfway out of his seat. The last file had a black mark on it, that made him glance back urgently, snatching it up again after he had thrown the sheaf of papers back onto the table. He flicked back feverishly, thinking, _Typical, the last one I look at… _

It was an ink blot.

He slammed the collection of files angrily back down onto their table, and stood up, scowling. He left the papers scattered haphazardly across the table, and thanked the librarian brusquely on his way out the door.

He was so tired. Every sheet had been a struggle to read, with blurry eyes that wanted so badly to close. He planned to collapse and sleep the minute he returned to the hotel room: Dean would have to have some pretty momentous intelligence if it was going to keep him awake.

The only explanation he could find for this chronic need for sleep was that the elusive dreams which had plagued him recently had prevented him from resting properly even when he was asleep. Either that or he must have pricked his finger on an enchanted spinning wheel. In fact, he reflected, sleeping for a hundred years didn't sound so bad…

He was surprised to see that Dean wasn't back yet, when he stumbled into the motel room, but quickly concluded that he must have gone out to a bar or something, bored of waiting for Sam. Frankly, he was too lethargic to give the matter much consideration, but just slumped, face down, onto his bed, fully dressed, and drifted blissfully into nothingness.

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When Dean woke, the first thing that caught his attention was the headache, pounding mercilessly away behind his eyes. He opened them hoping that he would see something to take his mind off the pain, and then immediately wished he hadn't. He didn't know where he was, but it was dimly lit, enclosed and oppressive, and, even more disconcertingly, he was stuck here. He was leaning against some kind of metal pillar or roof support, and his wrists were yanked painfully behind his back and secured with what felt like wire: thin and sharp and strong. It was grating agonizingly against the bones of his wrist, and digging deeps ruts in his flesh. He could feel blood, slick on his hands.

The other thing about the view which was less than encouraging was the skinny kid, who was leaning against the opposite wall, watching him with interest and predatory eyes.

When Dean spoke, he found his throat was bone dry, and the words came out hoarse. He said the first thing that came into his mind.

'Did you kill them?' he asked.

'Who?' asked the boy, with wide eyes feigning innocence, and a crooked smile which belied them. He was enjoying every minute of this, evidently.

Dean clarified, glaring fiercely at his captor.

'You know. Louise and Philip. Did you kill them?'

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Don't like the cliff-hanger? Review, and I'll update faster. Tell me how evil I am ; )

P.S. - just out of interest: is the review button purple for everyone other than angel679:S lol ; )


	5. Find a scapegoat

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 5**

'Yes, I killed them,' he replied, tonelessly, his voice flatly devoid of remorse.

Dean blinked, and opened his mouth, searching for a reply. None came to him, and he settled for silence, leaning back against his pillar. He twisted his hands experimentally, stoically ignoring the pain as the tight bonds scythed up his wrists. He stretched his fingers back, fumbling for the end of the wire so he could begin working on loosening it. His face remained as stony as he could make it, coldly glaring at the kid's feet, and purposely avoiding his eyes.

After a few minutes, the kid wriggled uncomfortably in the silence. Clearly he had been expecting Dean to demand more answers, and was disappointed with the anticlimactic state of affairs which he was faced with. Dean held out, waiting for the other guy to start talking.

'I'm Michael,' the kid offered eventually, in an idiotic tone which suggested he could think of nothing else to say. The platitude sounded so strange in the bizarre situation, Dean almost laughed.

Dean made no answer to the empty statement, and the silence again stretched out between them. Dean reproached himself bitterly for getting caught by such an obviously incompetent villain.

'Don't you want to know how I did it?' Michael asked at last, desperately. 'Or, why I attacked you? Or even, what I'm going to do with you?' So starved of attention all his life, he was deeply unsatisfied by what he had imagined to be a dramatic confrontation.

Dean raised his eyes slowly to meet Michael's ice-blue gaze, and shrugged, exaggerating his indifference. _Of course I want to know, _he thought, _but you're going to tell me anyway, and I feel better about this whole situation if I can piss you off a bit in the process…_

Michael was only silent for a few seconds before he caved, and, to his satisfaction, his very first comment provoked too strong a reaction for Dean to effectively hide.

'They told me they wanted Sam, and that his brother needed to be removed first,' he half-muttered it, as if his longing for dramatics had dissolved, and he was now talking to himself.

Dean looked up sharply, Michael's words tightening in his throat as he tried to swallow them. 'What?' he rasped, forgetting to irritate Michael and to keep pulling at the wire on his wrists when he heard Sam's name on his captor's lips.

'My… family,' Michael explained, relishing the word. 'They want Sam to join them. He won't do that while he's still with you…'

Dean inhaled shakily, remembering Sam's psychic tendencies, and his recent dreams. Unmindful of his own predicament for the moment, he interrogated Michael in a harsh voice.

'Did you make him dream? Have you got some freaky ESP thing, too?'

Michael smiled, and answered simply, 'Yes.'

Dean glared at him.

'I made him dream. And I made him write on the walls. And I killed those people… I always wanted to kill them anyway, and it was the perfect way to draw you in…'

Michael stood up, pushing away from the wall, and when his hand escaped from its hiding place behind his back, it was holding a glistening narrow blade that somehow managed to pick up and reflect the minimal light. Dean's eyes followed it warily.

'Killing me won't make him join you…' Dean warned softly, without taking his eyes off the flashing silver knife in Michael's hand.

'No, not if he knows I did it,' Michael agreed silkily, enjoying every minute of the confrontation. 'I just need to find a scapegoat…'

'Yeah, who do you have in mind?' Dean spat, reflexively leaning back a little as the spark of silver advanced uncomfortably close to his face.

'Sam'

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Silence reigned in the little room, hanging like an invisible mantle over the narrow twin beds and the single inert occupant. It was a cold night, violent outside with rain lashed against the window with fierce winds. The distant roar of raindrops detonating endlessly on the roof was somehow muted by the mundane walls, so that it was no more than a buzzing which seemed almost to enhance the stillness, instead of diminishing it.

Sam Winchester's slumber was fitful, uneven, unreliable, and frequently plagued by dreams. Curled on his side, blankets twisted around his feet, Sam was sleeping deeply, but his eyes moved constantly, flickering under his eyelids, immersed in some illusion from which the rest of the world was excluded.

The stillness was broken when Sam began to wriggle in his sleep, but he remained quiet.

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'Sam,' Dean repeated flatly.

Michael's slow smile didn't reach his eyes, and it made him look less than human: a face made of glass and plastic, with a curved mouth.

Dean glared at him, confused and desperate for an explanation. 'How the hell do you expect to convince Sam that he killed me?' His own words turned his stomach. _I'm talking about me as if I'm already dead…_he thought, appreciating the irony.

Michael just kept smiling hideously, bringing the blade tremulously toward Dean's chest.

The pain swelling from the point where the point penetrated his skin made his eyes sting, and he blinked hard, willing himself not to let a tear escape. Michael pushed the blade in to a depth of a few inches, making Dean squirm and hiss in agony. Michael's face, so close that his breath was hot on Dean's face, was rapt in concentration. He made the first cut and moved on to a second with surgical precision, carving up his prisoner's helpless chest with such deliberate movements that Dean, squinting down through a blurry haze at the damage being inflicted, was sure there must be some order to it.

The pain occupied his mind to such an extent that he didn't work it out until Michael had finished and rocked back on his heels to admire his handiwork. When he realised what the kid was planning, he gasped in horror, and momentarily lost the power of speech. After his voice had returned to him, the only thing he could think of to say was:

'What does it say?'

Michael grinned at him, now wearing the expression of a delighted child rather than that of a monster.

'I think it's very appropriate,' he taunted.

Dean drew breath with difficulty as the inflation of his ribcage stretched his tortured skin. Each breath was shallow, and more painful than the last. Blood streamed down his shirt, merging the glistening words until they disappeared, camouflaged red on a red background.

'What… does it say?' he tried again, desperate to know without really knowing why he wanted such knowledge.

Michael leaned forward and whispered in his ear – presumably for effect as there was nobody else within earshot.

'Forgive me.'

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_Sorry, I know it was really short. I'll try to update quicker to make up for it, but I just thought that was the right place to stop, and I didn't want to add in a load of rambling just to make it longer!_


	6. The essential message

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 6**

Breathing was really becoming an issue. Dean wondered whether the benefit he got from the oxygen was really worth the intense agony of drawing it into his lungs. He was cold, shuddering irregularly with little chills that assaulted his body. His muscles, starved of blood, refused to respond to his mind's prompting, so even when Michael had untwisted the wire binding his hands – painfully, because it had to be pulled out of the deep ruts it had formed in his skin.

'I'm gonna take you home now…' Michael soothed mockingly, struggling to lift Dean and eventually giving up and dragging him by the arms out the door to a small car. Semi-conscious, Dean barely registered where they were going until Michael stopped and pulled him out again, roughly searching his jacket for his room key.

'Sam…' Dean croaked, uncertainly. Michael grinned at him.

'It's ok, we'll be quiet. We won't wake him up.'

Dean found himself unceremoniously dumped onto a bed which he realised was his own: back in the motel room. The jolt of collapsing onto the soft surface was unbearable; he briefly blacked out. When he came to, Michael was standing some distance away, gazing downwards. Dean twisted his head with great effort, and found Sam's sleeping face directly before his eyes. He cursed Sam's sleeping habits: when he ever got any sleep, you needed a brass band to wake him up again.

Michael carefully cleaned the scarlet blade of his knife on Sam's sheets. Dean choked, trying to protest: he didn't like the psycho with the knife standing so close to his little brother. But Michael just left the weapon beside the sleeping form on the bed, grinned at Dean, and headed for the door. Turning in the doorway, his pale face illuminated dramatically by moonlight, he rested his eyes on Dean, and flicked a hand towards the sleeping Sam.

'I really don't envy him when he wakes up…' he gloated softly. 'Goodbye, Dean. I'll be seeing you, Sam…'

Dean glared at him helplessly as he disappeared behind the heavy door, which slammed with an emphatic thud which rang with finality.

_Ok, I just gotta hang on until Sam wakes up, tell him it wasn't him, and get him to take me to hospital…_he thought. _Easy, right?_

The comfortable sheets, the warmth of the room, and the gentle, regular sound of Sam's peaceful breathing relaxed him, and he thought how easy it would be to sleep. He wouldn't have to struggle; breathing just came naturally when you were sleeping, right?

He pushed the thought away, and tried to shift himself into a less comfortable position so that sleep would seem less attractive. The pain still assaulting his chest ensured that no position was really comfortable, but the desire to submit to unconsciousness wouldn't leave him. Blood was still seeping from his chest; he could tell by the way his sheets had changed colour. Each drop that left him robbed him of some energy and feeling. He was starting to go numb, which, in itself, wasn't such a bad thing, but he had enough experience with these things to know that it wasn't good at all: if he wanted to stay awake, he needed to keep some blood _inside_ his body.

He realised, then, with a shock, that he didn't have time to wait for Sam. Despite his brother's typical early rising, it would still be a few hours before he came round, a few hours that Dean didn't have. He was losing strength, not by the hour but by the minute, and in order to save Sam from Michael, he first had to save himself. Which meant help, now.

Slowly, he reached a trembling hand into the pocket which should have held his cell phone. His uncertain fingers explored the pocket carefully before concluding that it was gone: Michael must have taken it when he was unconscious. He swore, or tried to, because oxygen was now so lacking that he couldn't make his lips move around the chosen expletive.

Letting his head flop to the side again, he squinted through the darkness at the nightstand, hoping to find Sam's phone. Nothing. Not even a land line provided by the motel: he cursed himself for choosing accommodation which was _this _cheap. The only item within his reach was a small lamp.

Dean had always survived by being resourceful, so he was willing to try anything, with whatever materials presented themselves. There was a chance that Sam would be woken by the sudden light if he switched the lamp on. It was a small chance, but it was there, and it was better than nothing.

He stretched out an arm, gritting his teeth against the wave which washed over him in response to the movement. His arm trembled, his muscles struggling now with the simple task of reaching out for a light switch. He stretched blood-soaked fingers toward the little switch. One inch away. _Come on, how hard can it be? _

Half an inch. He rolled his body to follow the movement of his arm, gasping in desperate anguish as the wound on his chest were crushed against the mattress. The switch was under his finger.

The light flicked on, making Dean's eyes water at the sudden brightness. He fixed his eyes hopefully on Sam.

Nothing.

No response.

He heard himself sob with frustration, and realised with alarm that even this quiet sound was muffled in the blood obstructing his throat.

'Come on, Sam…' he gasped, or tried to, as, although his lips were moving, he couldn't persuade them to make a sound. Rolling over on to his back again, to relieve the agonizing pressure on his chest, his hand collided with the lamp, knocking it off the other side of the table. The light he had taken such pains to produce was immediately extinguished, but the resounding crash it made, hitting the floor, would have woken Sleeping Beauty.

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Sam jerked suddenly awake, unsure what had yanked him out of sleep. His heart raced, disoriented, as he tried to work out what was happening, and what had caused him to come so abruptly back to consciousness. Blinking to adjust his eyes to the darkness of the room, he cast his mind back, and recalled his return from the library and urgent, unnatural need for oblivion. Suddenly panicked, he glanced around, scanning the wall and the sheets for any signs of clandestine graffiti, then breathed a heavy sigh of relief when he found none.

He remembered, too, that Dean hadn't been back when he fell asleep, and he turned his head inquisitively to see whether his brother had returned.

There was a body in the bed.

Sam fought off the girlish impulse to scream, swallowing the sound before it could pass his lips and instead choking on it. His eyes were so saturated with the flood of crimson that was before them that they failed to recognise the body as his brother's for some moments.

Even when he realised who he was looking at, he still lacked the power to act, and sat immobilised for several further seconds. It didn't look like Dean. It was too pale, too weak and helpless, too limp, too broken. Too soaked in red.

Shaking almost too much to support himself on his unreliable legs, Sam crept out of bed and approached the body. What could possibly have happened to cause this? Something had gotten into the room while Sam slept, or maybe Dean had been injured on his way home and had made his way back here before collapsing. Guilt washed over Sam, and a hot, sick feeling of uselessness. What use was a brother who lay sleeping while his sibling bled out beside him? Who didn't wake up to hear him gasping for breath? How long had Dean lain here alone, trying not to die?

The corpse opened its eyes. The hazel irises visible through a slit between the eyelids flicked from side to side, as if Dean didn't have the strength to hold them still. With great effort, Dean met his brother's eyes. Pain was written in those irises.

He tried to draw breath to speak with, and found his windpipe choked with blood. All Sam could hear was a hissing of air being sucked laboriously into his brother's mouth.

'Sam,' he tried to say, 'Sam…' He realised he was wasting precious breath on his brother's name, when he had so little to spare for the essential message, but 'Sam' was the first and only word which would come to his lips.

'Shh…' Sam soothed, still baffled and terrified, but putting every effort into a calm façade. 'It's ok, don't try to talk. You're gonna be ok, I'll get help…' His mind was screaming with the question, _What happened?_ but he forced himself not to voice it. It could wait.

Dean seemed to disagree. He was getting more and more agitated, coughing up red spots which decorated Sam's shirt as he leant over his brother. Dean's hand shot out and gripped Sam's wrist with the surprising, desperate strength of the dying.

Sam tried to pull away from it. 'I need to call for help, Dean. I'll be right back. You're gonna be fine, I promise.' He regretted the promise the moment it fell from his tongue. It seemed like tempting fate, like making such a vow made it more likely that he would have to break it.

Dean wouldn't let go. His lips were still trying to shape themselves around words, but in vain. His body was failing him. He had nothing left to fight with: no air, no blood, no strength. Darkness claimed him.

'No, no… Dean stay with me please,' Sam begged, feeling the cold hand go limp and release his forearm, leaving white finger marks on his skin. Swallowing hard, he threw himself across the room and snatched at his cell phone. He was barely coherent, giving the address and details to the operator in a frantic, hurried, breathless voice. Returning to his unconscious brother, he braced himself, and then carefully peeled back the remains of the tattered shirt, and used one of his own t-shirts to mop at the frightening excess of scarlet liquid that painted Dean's chest. The wounds, revealed from their camouflage, looked all the more vivid for the whiteness of the surrounding skin. Rocking back on his heels to take in the severity of the wounds, his eyes refocused, and he realised, slowly and reluctantly, what he was looking at.

Another message, carved with a knife into flesh as the second message had been carved into the flesh of the tree. But, this time, _Dean's_ flesh. The thought was appalling, repulsive. Sam thanked Providence that he hadn't eaten all day, because he felt an overwhelming urge to bring up the contents of his stomach. He stumbled back, away from the evidence that incriminated him with the worst offence imaginable… fratricide.

His mind filled with an abhorrent image: himself, sleepwalking, taking up a knife and wandering over to where his brother lay sleeping. Using his body as a blank canvas for those words, which glowed so vividly scarlet on a pale, clammy background. He imagined Dean waking up at the touch of the knife to find himself immobilised with pain, trapped as the victim of his brother's amateur surgery. Begging him to wake up, and come to his senses. In vain.

The words grew in Sam's eye until they obstructed everything else: reproaching him, mocking him. _Forgive me, _he had written.

_Forgive me, _of all things.

Clawing at his skin instinctively in revulsion, he choked out a sob, half laughing at the unbearable irony of those words. _Why should Dean forgive me for this? Can I even forgive myself?_

He was yanked from his depression by the sound of sirens, and realised, with a painful stab of self-reproach, that he had been sitting useless while his brother continued to bleed. He opened the door for the paramedics, and stood by distractedly, watching them tend to Dean, tearing himself apart with guilt.

_How could I?... Even sleeping, I should have some instinct, be able to avoid this… _The hideous word returned to him, echoing around his skull, resisting all his attempts to push it away. _Fratricide._

The frantic exchange of jargon between the medics sounded distant and strange in his ears, as though he was cut off from the real world and locked inside his own head, in a reality fashioned entirely from guilt. When they carried Dean out, looking paler and weaker than ever, Sam answered none of their urgent questions, but followed them mutely, as if he were still walking in a dream. This time, a nightmare.

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_I know, I know, it was extremely angsty – but I think the situation demanded it! Agree, disagree? Either way, let me know! Press the blue/purple/ black/ light blue button. : )_


	7. So sorry

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 7**

'_Thus was I, sleeping, by a brother's hand  
Of life, of crown, of queen, at once dispatch'd'_

_Hamlet, William Shakespeare. _

Eventually, they gave up their questions. Sam heard none of them, and his only response was to ask earnestly, over and over again, 'Will he be ok?' After the sixth or seventh attempt to work out what happened, the flustered medics resigned themselves to the fact that he was too distracted to answer. The only conclusion they could come to was that he was suffering from severe shock, but their curiosity was unsatisfied, and a few looked suspiciously at Sam out of the corners of their eyes, wondering if guilt might have something to do with the almost catatonic state he had fallen into. The bizarre, disturbing nature of Dean's injuries hadn't escaped their notice, either. In the confined space offered by the ambulance, they tried their best to maintain a safe distance from Sam.

For his part, Sam noticed none of this. He was still locked inside his own head, his vision filled with the luminous scarlet words daubed on his brothers chest, regardless of the direction his head was facing. His mind, inconveniently and irritatingly, was repeating an unwelcome snatch of Shakespeare's _Hamlet, _learned and forgotten in High School and now echoing loudly in his ears when they were the last words he wanted to hear.

Another part of his mind, which was still, largely, rational, was combating the endless cycle of unbearable guilt with the repeated mantra that _Dean would be ok. _Every time he said it to himself, he believed it less. The more he tried to convince himself, the more he failed, but he felt that it was a belief he couldn't just let go of. It was the only link remaining to a reality that once was. If Dean was ok, then he knew what happened next. Hospital bills, evading payment, a long period of recovery, and having to wrestle with Dean, possibly physically, to make sure he took it easy and remembered his medication. It wasn't exactly an attractive routine, but it was a familiar one, and it was idyllic when compared to the alternative.

The alternative was a thought he didn't want to admit, but somehow it crept uninvited into his consciousness and nagged at him, refusing to be ignored. If Dean _wasn't_ ok, then what happened? He tried to imagine a future, but his imagination's picture could produce only a black hole. Darkness, oblivion, and uncertainty. Would he go back to school? No, he wouldn't, it would be like a betrayal of Dean's memory: leaving him behind when he was too silent and dead to object. He tried to imagine himself hunting alone, and saw himself defeated at the first hurdle, with no-one to watch his back. He tried to imagine himself re-teaming with Dad, and saw them arguing each other to death within days, no reliable presence between them to act the voice of reason. Whatever he thought of, he kept returning to the black hole. After Dean, there was nothing.

Blinking, he focused his eyes with a great effort, reminding himself sternly that Dean was alive, that he _didn't, wouldn't_ believe that he was going to die. It just wasn't an option.

_Especially when it's my fault, _said the unhelpful voice. He pushed it away, and the mental act was accompanied by a violent gesture which added to the alarmed looks of the medics who sat around him in the ambulance.

He fixed his eyes on Dean's face, trying not to see the distressing pallor of his skin or the vivid spot of crimson by his lip. He concentrated instead on the familiar, reassuring lines of his face: the strong cheekbones, the shape of his nose, the eye sockets and closed lids, the eyelashes resting against the skin of his cheek. Shapes which had been a comfort to him since he'd been old enough to recognise them, since he's first laid eyes on the small boy holding him and, somehow, realised, _this is my brother. _

But the face was too still, too pale, and too damaged, and these things permeated through the reassuring image until it dissolved. This was Dean, but he couldn't help, now. He couldn't fix this, couldn't save Sam. Not this time.

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When they reached the hospital, Sam had regained the power of speech, but his eyes were still unfocused. A young nurse was entrusted with the task of coaxing a name and other details out of the frightened young man, and she eventually concluded that the patient's name was Dean Simmons, that the distraught relative was his brother, and that whatever had happened, Sam didn't want to tell her about it. The story he concocted was hesitant, vague and full of holes. She guessed that even when he was more coherent, Sam lacked the conviction, confidence and creativity to be an effective liar.

'Thank you,' she said quietly, realising that she wouldn't get anything else out of him until he knew his brother would be alright. _And that's debateable. _She slipped out of the room discreetly, leaving Sam sitting on a plastic chair, slumped forward, with his head in his hands, unmoving. The waiting room was deserted, otherwise. It wasn't a busy hospital, especially not so late at night.

The nurse couldn't have known, but the last thing Sam wanted was to be alone with his thoughts. His own mind attacked him more cruelly than any other judge could, reminding him mercilessly, over and over, over again, that he had taken up a knife, in his sleep, and used it against his brother. The message itself, apart from its painful irony, was unimportant, as far as he was concerned. He didn't care whose last words they had been, who had been taken out by the hand of this mysterious demon. If Dean didn't live, he couldn't care who else died. The thought made him shiver: he didn't want to be this person, who cared only for himself. But it was true: he would kill a thousand Louises, a thousand Philips, to save Dean.

He squirmed in his seat, trying to escape the accusations of his mind. He wished he could be sedated; anything just to _stop_ thinking. When the door opened with an apologetic click, he was relieved. For once, he was eager to make small talk. He would discuss the weather with some anxious relative; it would provide an escape from silence and loneliness, and from his own company.

'Sam?' said a hesitant voice. 'It is Sam, right? I asked reception…'

Sam looked up, and met the eyes of a skinny kid with a narrow face and a black t-shirt, who was watching him with wide, concerned eyes.

'Hey…' he said, recognition kicking in slowly. 'We thought you'd been killed. You went missing…'

'Yeah…' the kid replies, looking sheepish. 'I just… I live in an institution. The woman who runs it is really nice, but still, sometimes I just need to get away for a while.'

Sam half-smiled in sympathy. People said that when you were depressed, it helped to find someone worse off then you. He didn't feel better exactly, but… less bad. He was chokingly afraid of losing Dean, but this kid had never had a Dean, or anyone. That would be worse, surely?

'I hope you weren't too worried about me,' muttered the kid, with a nervous laugh, shooting an embarrassed glance at Sam.

'No, it's ok,' Sam replied distractedly.

'I'm Michael,' offered the skinny teen, after a pause, sitting down opposite Sam. Sam was grateful that Michael hadn't interpreted his silence as a signal that he wanted to be alone: he wanted to talk, to keep his accusing mind quiet, but he couldn't think of anything to say.

'Hey, Michael,' Sam replied, dully. He cleared his throat, awkwardly. 'Sorry… I just… my brother's… sick.'

'Yeah, I saw them bring him in. I was passing. Thought you might… want to talk…,' he paused, thoughtfully. 'I mean, if you don't, I totally understand. I just thought… if I had a brother, and he was hurt… I'd want to… have someone to talk to. Take my mind off… everything.'

Sam looked up, surprised by the accurate insight. 'Thanks,' he said, hoarsely. He attempted a smile, but could manage only a tightening of lips which left his eyes stinging with misery.

'So… actually, I wanted to talk to you anyway. You see… I have these… weird abilities. I get dreams and stuff. Sometimes even when I'm awake… like, a headache, and then I see something. And then, it happens. It's been freaking me out.' Michael paused, uncertain, frightened eyes seeking guidance in Sam, appealing to him for help. Sam was lost for words. 'I'm really sorry, we don't have to talk about it. It's not a good time…'

'No, it's fine,' Sam replied quickly. He didn't want to be left alone, and, despite everything that was happening, his interest was peaked. 'I just… Michael, why are you telling me?'

'Because… you're going to thinks I'm nuts. But, when you arrived in town, I dreamed of you. Before I even met you. But not... doing anything in particular. Usually my… visions are… violent. Like they have a purpose. With you, I just… saw you. Am I freaking you out? I think there's a connection… I wondered… please don't think I'm insane… if you ever get… freaky dreams, or anything like that…'

Sam stared at him incredulously, wide eyed. 'Yeah,' he breathed, eventually. 'I do. It's been going on for… 8, 9 months now. That's… really weird…' he finished, lamely, still studying Michael's concerned face carefully. Now that it was mentioned, Michael did seem familiar. Ever since he'd arrived in this town, his visions had been different: he hadn't remembered them afterwards. It had to be the effect of another psychic so close by. And, looking at the teen opposite him, he felt the same conviction that he recognised him as he had experienced when faced with Louise's body. Meeting someone else like him was liberating, refreshing. He felt an instant sense of kinship with Michael: finally, another freak. He wasn't alone. Then, he remembered Michael saying that he lived in an institution, and every muscle in his body seemed to tense simultaneously in agonizing anticipation.

'Michael… you said you lived in an institution. I'm really sorry to ask, but… what happened to your parents?'

Michael looked at him, meeting his eyes directly, and holding his gaze unblinking. 'They were killed, in a fire, when I was a baby,' he replied, in a voice which was quiet and calm, but trembling with suppressed emotion.

'Jesus Christ…' Sam choked, raising cold fingers to his face and releasing a long, shaky breath. 'Oh, my God. My God…'

'What?'

'My mother was killed, in a fire, when I was six months old. It was… there's…' He took a deep breath, bracing himself for the explanation. 'Now, you're going to think _I'm_ crazy…' he warned, and then he began the story. From the beginning: the demon, his mother's death, Dad's crusade, leaving for college, Jess' death and starting the whole hunting thing up again with Dean. Even the recent dreams and the messages on the wall, the tree, the bed sheet. Even, because he was on a roll, because it was helping to get everything out, because he trusted Michael instinctively due to their shared abilities, he even told the truth about what had happened with Dean, and his fears that it had been his own work. Before he knew it, he had told everything, and his voice had given out and broken. He had admitted that he was afraid he had killed his brother, and his strength had failed. He choked on a sob, and scrubbed his hands forcefully through his hair, slumping forward over his knees so that his bowed head shadowed the anguish on his face.

Michael listened with wide eyed fascination and the sympathy of one who has suffered similarly. He said nothing, but nodded, and motioned for Sam to continue every time he faltered. He was a good listener, and he made no comment when his informant eventually broke down.

Eventually, Sam lifted his head, and gathered the frayed ends of his sanity, turning back to Michael. 'Sorry,' he croaked. 'I guess I got a little carried away. Guess I needed to tell someone…'

'Hey, it's ok. It was really interesting… Do you think the same thing killed my parents, then?' he asked, with genuine curiosity.

'I would… I think so. Probably. I'm sorry… I know, it's a lot to take in.'

'No, I don't mind. Actually… I feel like it explains a lot. Does that make sense?'

Sam frowned at him for a moment, then nodded. 'Yeah, it does. I understand.'

Glancing up, Sam noticed that a white coat was approaching the door of the waiting room, and he inhaled sharply, panicking.

'You ok?' Michael asked.

Sam grunted unintelligibly in reply, staring at the approaching doctor. Michael followed his gaze.

'I'm not sure if I can face it,' Sam admitted. 'If it's bad news… I honestly don't know what I'd do…'

'Do you want me to find out for you?' Michael offered. 'I don't mind, it's fine,' he added, standing up quickly when Sam hesitated.

He slipped quickly out of the door and intercepted the doctor before he could reach out for the handle. Sam saw him, through the blinds, wave a hand as he made some explanation, then gesture to the doctor that they moved away. Sam was grateful for that: he wasn't ready to know, yet, he didn't want to watch their facial expressions and frantically try to guess whether the news was good or bad.

He tried to prepare himself for the revelation, whatever it turned out to be. Again, he found himself staring into the black hole that was life without Dean. It formed itself, this time, into an image of Michael. He imagined himself clinging to the high schooler like a limpet, afraid of returning to his father or hunting alone, but sticking, instead, with someone who was, at least, similar to him in one essential way.

Shaking away the uncertain future, he tried to calm himself by taking several deep breaths. Whatever he tried, the tension wouldn't leave his body, and he could feel every muscle trembling convulsively, frozen in anticipation, and, he realised, in fear. Nothing in eighteen years of training could prepare him for a moment like this.

The door opened.

Michael's face, carefully schooled to impassivity, appeared around the frame. He took a deep breath, and then came straight out with it, humanely sparing Sam of any further waiting.

'I'm so sorry, Sam…'

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Review, and I'll update!!


	8. Stubborn as hell

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 8**

Dean floated in a space between dreaming and waking. There was something comforting about this state: short of the total vulnerability of sleep, but still relaxed, with his mind too lethargic to ask questions, his body too numb to answer them. It was a state of suspended reality, in which he could exist without the memories of what had happened before he passed out, or the searing agony of the consequences. It was bliss. If heaven existed, it might be like this.

The only thing that spoiled it was the vague knowledge, nagging at the back of his mind, that this state was temporary, and that cruel reality and shattering revelations awaited him inevitably when he woke up, and that he couldn't postpone it forever. He was willing to try, though.

Something startled him out of it. It wasn't a sound, or any message from his senses, but a thought, sudden, clear, sharp-edged, invading his stupor, uninvited, but necessary.

_Sam…_

Piercing him like a glass knife, the thought shocked him awake. He opened his eyes and shuddered violently, gasping into wakefulness. Senses cascaded onto him all at once, unwelcome. Bright light, stinging his eyes, white and remorseless, air cold and harsh in his lungs, and pain, stretching his chest, assaulting him in a sudden barrage. Moving hurt, breathing hurt; it hurt to keep his eyes open. Thinking hurt.

_Sam._

With another forceful jolt, he recalled the dusky silence of the motel room, Sam freaking out, and himself trying, failing, to get the words out. Michael's plan. The message, _Forgive me, _inscribed so inappropriately on his chest for Sam's benefit. Passing out, and leaving Sam, alone and lost, guilt-ridden and vulnerable.

A nurse slipped into the room, and blinked at him in mild surprise.

'I'll be damned,' she said. 'You're awake.'

She was young and pale, with a bright eyed innocence which seemed incongruous with her blunt voice. Dean made no response; he wasn't in the mood for flirting – any other day, yeah, now… no.

'We weren't really expecting you to come round just yet. You're… lucky to be alive,' she went on, looking at him incredulously. She seemed to come to herself, and added. 'I should really get a doctor…'

She turned to go, but he called her back.

'Hey, wait! Uh… where's my brother?'

'Who? The guy you came in with?'

'Yeah. Sam…'

'Sam Simmons, right?'

'Yeah, that's him.'

He fixed her gaze, appealing to her with raised eyebrows and pleading eyes. She shut the door and moved back towards his bed.

'I'm really sorry… he left. Last night, just after you were stabilized.'

Dean said nothing, but his face froze in shock. He could hardly believe what he was hearing.

'I can call him for you, if you give me the number,' she suggested kindly. 'Hey, are you ok?'

'What…? You… uh… you told him I was ok and he just… left?'

Dean's mind was racing with possibilities. Sam had found out he was going to live, and _then _he had left? If he thought this was his fault, then Sam must have left him either because he couldn't face Dean after what he believed he had done, or because he thought he could protect him by leaving, because he was afraid of hurting him again.

'No… we told his friend, who came to sit with him. Then he passed on the message. And they left together, if you want all the details. But, look: I can call him. He's not gonna leave you – you should have seen him, he was a mess. Terrified. You guys must be really close. I can guarantee he didn't leave because he doesn't care.'

Far from being reassured, Dean gasped at the mention of Sam's 'friend' and shot upright, wincing at the pain brought by the action, but pushing the feeling away, occupied with stripping away the tape and IV tube which held him to the bed.

'What are you doing?'

'I've got to go,' he muttered vaguely in reply.

'You can't, you're still… I don't think you realise how close you came to…'

Her words met with no response, and Dean, ignoring her, was surprised when she caught his wrists in her slender fingers. He could easily have broken her grip, but something stopped him. Her pale, unremarkable eyes had become inflamed with a ferocity which he would never have expected to see in the placid young woman.

'Stop it! What the hell are you doing?'

He stared at her with wild eyes, helpless and desperate, wracked with pain in the aftermath of his escape attempt.

'I have to go…' he repeated, softer than the first time, appealing to her silently with his green eyes. She bit her lip, and sat down on the edge of the bed, releasing him, but with a dangerous look in her eye which suggested that she wouldn't tolerate another self-destructive outburst.

'Tell me,' she ordered quietly. The authority in her voice was surprising. Looking at her properly, he realised belatedly that she was attractive. Somehow, her beauty wasn't diminished by being less obvious: she had a subtle, delicate prettiness which became clear only when she was impassioned.

Dean hesitated. It was clear that he had to tell something, but couldn't possibly tell all. He wondered exactly how much he could entrust to her.

'I… think Sam may be in trouble,' he began, sighing. He opened his mouth to continue, but closed it again abruptly: however appealing she was, he didn't trust anyone when it came to Sam. 'I need you to discharge me. I'll sign whatever…'

'I'm not gonna do that. You'll die,' she replied with brutal honesty. 'I'll help, if I can, but I can't do that.'

'You can't help,' he answered bluntly, meeting her abruptness with a similar attitude.

'You can't leave.'

They stared angrily at one another, and Dean was powerfully reminded of childhood disputes with Sam: the clash of two stubborn wills, each unwilling to compromise or accommodate the other's wishes.

'Look,' he said eventually, shying away from her fierce gaze. He realised he would have to explain further, if he wanted to change her mind. 'The guy Sam's with is… bad news. The friend you mentioned. And Sam's… going through a tough time right now… I think his… "friend"… might try to take advantage of him.'

'I'll call him for you. I already said, I can do that. I'll get him to come to you, and you can stay here.'

'I don't think he'd come…'

'Why not?'

'Because… Sam thinks… he's responsible for this,' Dean muttered waving a hand to indicate his heavily bandaged chest. He felt like every word was forcibly dragged out of him.

'Was he? Responsible, I mean?'

Dean glared at her, refusing to justify the question with an answer.

'Ok, I get it. Sow do you know the friend is so… bad news?' she asked, echoing his phrase. He studied her face, and realised that she was genuinely interested, and genuinely wanted to help. He decided to risk it: he wasn't going to tell _everything_, but he felt he could trust her.

'He did it… the friend, he's… responsible.'

'You need to call the - ,'

'Trust me, I _don't_ need to call the police.'

She raised an eyebrow at him, critically. She didn't say it aloud, but her look said it all. _What have you got to hide?_

Dean's first thought for an answer was, a lot. For the second time, he blinked away from her disconcerting stare, shrugged, and tried to justify himself. He reflected that this was probably the first time he had met anyone as stubborn as himself.

'Look, this freak's got my brother right where he wants him… I want to make sure it's handled… carefully.'

She sighed. He waited uncertainly, not holding out much hope. Without telling her _everything, _which was not an option, he couldn't really expect her to understand. Any normal person would call the police… he hoped desperately that she wouldn't take matters into her own hands, and realised suddenly what a risk he had taken in confiding in her. If she called the police, he'd be stuck at the hospital ages, and their bull-in-a-china-shop approach would surely alert Michael to the search too quickly for there to be any hope in saving Sam. Michael's plan had already been disrupted on one point: Dean had survived. Even if he had somehow succeeded in winning Sam over, he still might return to make sure he couldn't be followed. He needed to act quickly, and quietly.

'What can I do?' asked the nurse, studying him with sincere eyes.

Dean blinked in surprise.

'Sorry?' He glanced back to meet her gaze with confused eyes.

'I'll do whatever I can to help you, if you promise not to leave until you've recovered, at least enough to be safe.' She delivered this short speech in measured, reasonable tones, though it was clear that she would take no nonsense. 'Deal?'

'You're not gonna call the police?'

'Not if you think it'd be a bad idea.'

'And you won't… say anything, to anyone else?'

'Of course not.'

'And I can leave, right, as soon as it's… safe? Say, when I can…'

'Walk? Convincingly and without swaying or falling over.'

Dean glared, but resolved that he could force himself to stay upright if he had to.

'Deal.'

She took his hand in a grip that was surprisingly firm despite her narrow fingers, and shook it decisively. She nodded, as if to herself, with an emotion that might have been relief in her eyes.

'So, what can I do?'

'Could you look up a high school student for me, find an address? I don't have a last name, but I could… describe him.' He raised an eyebrow, hopefully, but with doubt in his eyes.

'Yeah, probably.'

'His first name's Michael. He goes to the massive school on the edge of town… Skinny kid, thin face, black hair. Really white-faced.'

'I'll have a look…'

'It would be a start…'

She stood up, nodding. In the doorway, she turned around in response to his appeal to 'wait'.

'What's your name?'

'Eleanor.'

He nodded, satisfied. She turned again, and again he asked her to wait.

'Eleanor… Thanks.'

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Eleanor found the address with relatively little trouble, and, on Dean's instructions, headed over to the institution to look for Michael, armed with precautionary pepper spray. Dean wasn't surprised when she reported that the motherly woman who managed the place hadn't seen Michael since the first day he disappeared. However, Eleanor showed herself to be resourceful, and when searching Michael's room she found an obscure address for a building somewhere near the town.

Dean, recovering, found himself better equipped to argue with her, but still it was a struggle to convince her that she couldn't approach this building alone.

'Well, who's gonna come with me?' she demanded. She was on a night shift, when the hospital was emptier, which Dean gathered was organised so that she could lecture him without getting called down by a doctor.

'You're not going, it's not safe…'

'It's not safe…' she repeated exasperatedly.

'Seriously, it's not… I have… experience of these things.'

He saw a question rise in her eyes, and his respect for her increased when she didn't ask it.

'You can't go. Remember, you agreed?'

He stared at her grimly, and carefully sat up.

'No, no way, don't even try. Look, I have training, I'm a nurse: there's no _way_ you should be out of bed yet…'

He ignored her, and she hypocritically muttered 'stubborn' under her breath.

She stepped forward impulsively with concern shining out of her eyes as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. Her hands fluttered forward to help, but he waved them away, rising slowly but steadily to his feet. His face remained entirely impassive as he crossed the room, and her eyes followed him incredulously.

'What...? How…? Doesn't that hurt?'

'No.' _Yes. _

She hesitated, reluctant. 'I'm impressed, but I _know_ you're not healthy…'

Dean wanted to say, you promised, but he knew that wasn't fair. He felt like he had deceived her, and had violated their bargain. Instead, he just said, 'Please.'

She closed her eyes, and sighed. 'Be careful.'

'I will'

'Ok… I'll get the paperwork, to say that you're refusing further treatment. There's the address I found.'

A few minutes later, fully dressed, and sitting next to Eleanor on the side of the bed, Dean felt a pang of doubt, buried in his consciousness. He knew, as much as she did, that he had only succeeded in walking through pure will power. However, he suppressed the doubt: it was pale and weak in comparison to his resolve to find Sam.

A heavy silence surrounded them, resounding with the 'goodbye' that neither of them wanted to voice. Frowning suddenly with curiosity, Dean asked softly:

'Why did you help me?'

'I'm a nurse, I help people,' she said flatly. She was still pissed at him.

'Come on,' he prompted, laying a gentle hand on her arm.

She looked at him then, and in the dim light of the hospital room, it was hard to tell whether her eyes were bright, or shiny with moisture. She shrugged sadly.

'Maybe I like you,' she admitted.

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Eleanor watched Dean leave the hospital, her professional eye picking up on the stiffness of his limbs in his effort not to limp or look unstable. She was intrigued by him. He seemed intense and powerful, but his strength was full of cracks and small tragedies. He moved with athletic grace, hindered by injury. He was dangerous and gentle, brave, and stubborn as hell. She admired him almost instinctively, but something told her they would never be a couple. He was too mysterious, too elusive and unpredictable to be long-term material. Still, she felt her heart ache at the concept of him being in danger, and her intuition told her that he was, more so than she would ever know.

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_Bit of a fill in chapter, that one… still, if I only had exciting chapters, the story would make no sense. Reviews are always, always appreciated. In fact, I refuse to update until you review. Yes, you!_


	9. His guilt and his grief

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 9**

With Eleanor's disappointed face floating cruelly in his mind's eye, and his chest burning and hitching painfully with every movement, every breath, Dean soon found himself regretting his premature departure from the hospital. He managed to call a cab outside the hospital to get back to the motel room and the Impala, then left immediately in his beloved car, clutching in his hand the scrap of paper with the address from Michael's room, written in Eleanor's neat, efficient handwriting. Even behind the wheel of his own car, Dean felt uncertain and insecure, vulnerable with his fragile chest and awkward movements.

The building he sought wasn't easy to find, either. It seemed to be somewhere on the outskirts of town, or even a few miles outside it, but without any knowledge of the area, or a navigator, Dean could only drive around aimlessly until he found the road mentioned on the slip of paper. It took several hours for him to find anything, and every wasted minute made him more agitated. Who knew what Michael could be doing to Sam? Or what Sam could be doing to himself?

He had lost track of time when he saw it, but it brought him a pang of frustration: a street sign, one he had already passed several times, almost entirely obscured by undergrowth. He was out on a back road, which was lined on both sides by the thick forest which seemed to encircle the whole town. This road was narrow, and dark, overshadowed by trees, but the turning indicated was worse: it looked as though it hadn't been used in several decades, except that the mud and plants were cut through with clear, fresh tyre tracks.

Dean cursed himself: how could he have missed this the last time he passed? Despite the ominous look of the track, Dean swung the wheel around between his hands without hesitation, without even thinking of the risks presented to the Impala by the clinging mud and scratching branches. Something like energy ignited in his tired body: Sam was here, he was convinced of it. Everything was going to be ok.

Two hundred yards or so up the track, it narrowed further, and Dean had to leave the Impala, reluctantly, and walk. Every step reminded him forcibly that he shouldn't be out of bed yet, but every stab of pain also reminded him of the one responsible, and increased his resolve to deal with Michael.

It occurred to him suddenly that Michael was human, and that according to Sam's code of ethics, he shouldn't have to pay with his life for what he had done. Dean resented this: he didn't tolerate the killing of innocents, but Michael's actions had made it clear in his mind that the teen was as much a monster as anything he'd ever hunted. It seemed unfair on the werewolves, vampires and demons of the world that they should be killed for being evil, while Michael could get away with being equally sadistic and be punished only with a slap on the wrist. Still, he didn't want to violate Sam's beliefs, and he could see his brother's point: if he started killing his own species, he was no better than those he fought against. Despite that, he couldn't shake the feeling that no punishment would ever be severe enough to constitute justice for what Michael had done.

Breathing painfully through his teeth, Dean kept on up the muddy track, his feet becoming heavier and heavier with the black mud sticking to them. A shack melded into view through the trees, and another turn brought him out into the clearing in front of the battered building.

It was single-storey, wooden and ancient, creaking with the gentle encouragement of the wind and crumbling away at the corners. The corrugated iron roof seemed to stay up only by leaning against itself, and the whole building had the haphazard air of being ready to collapse in any direction, or all directions at once, if someone were to walk up and nudge it. Dean's first thought was that, if Sam was in there, he hoped the whole structure didn't collapse on his brother's head before he could get him out.

Nobody appeared to challenge him, so he simply walked up to the door and pushed it open – gingerly, wondering if the doorframe could still support the weight of the wall when the heavy wooden slab was out of its place.

The interior of the shack was so like the outside that it seemed as though the house had been turned inside-out. The same wooden walls, insecure and not perpendicular to one another, even the same quilted, rusting roof, visible from underneath. The floor was dry, sandy dirt, and the furniture was minimal: a table, two chairs, a bed, and a door, apparently leading into a second room. Sitting in at the table, slumped and dejected, with his head in his hands, was Sam. Alone.

_This is _too _easy, _Dean thought incredulously, marvelling at his good fortune. He wondered idly, _what's the catch?_

It didn't take him long to find out.

He took a tentative step towards Sam, stretching out a hand. Worried that his brother was in no state for a shock right now, he tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, and he spoke before he was too close to Sam's side.

'Hey, Sam,' he said quietly, and the words caught his throat and came out hoarse, choked by relief.

Sam jerked like a startled rabbit and fixed wild, red-rimmed eyes on his older brother. Instead of sighing with relief or gasping with amazement, his eyes filled with irrational terror, and he leaned back on his chair, clutching impulsively at the table with cold white fingers. His eyes fixed, wide and panicking, on Dean's stunned face, he opened his mouth and yelled raggedly at the top of his voice.

'Michael! Michael!'

Dean's heart jumped a somersault in his chest, and he found himself gasping for breath. He staggered a step closer to Sam, and whispered urgently to his brother.

'Sam, it's me! What are you doing?'

Still staring at him with horror, Sam paid no attention to his pleas. 'Michael!' he screamed again.

The internal door burst open with a loud, explosive sound, and Michael himself appeared, exactly as Dean remembered him, but wearing an expression of deep concern rather than the sadistic pleasure that had governed his face the last time Dean saw him. His black eyes flicked from Sam to Dean and back again, showing some surprise, but carefully burying it.

He ignored Dean utterly, and knelt in front of Sam, leaving the older Winchester brother to watch in horrified confusion.

'Sam, what's up? Did you have another vision?'

'I can still see him, Michael… I think he's haunting me, because I killed him… I'm so sorry, Dean,' he added, looking into Dean's perplexed eyes, still looking terrified.

'Sam, you need to learn to controll your powers. I can help you, but I need you to let go of this guilt… It makes you emotional, and then you're not in controll of your own mind. You can be really powerful, Sam. More than me. You could do great things for our master. But you need to let go… you need to forget about your brother…'

Dean, gaping silently, having temporarily lost the power of speech, expected Sam to object to this: to say that he couldn't just forget about his brother, that nobody was his _master._ But he was to be surprised, again.

'I'm sorry Michael. I'm trying to forget. How can I make it stop?'

He was pleading now, begging Michael to save him from his brother, or from his brother's memory. This wasn't the Sam Dean knew; it wasn't the brother he had come looking for. This man was lost, broken.

'Sam, look at me!' Dean demanded, finally finding his voice. He stepped forward again, and found that the walk to the shack was catching up to him: the world swayed in front of him, and he struggled to stay upright. 'Sam, I'm not dead! _Look _at me!'

Sam whimpered pitifully, retracting further into the chair, away from Dean.

'What's the matter? Can you still see it?'

'Yes,' Sam breathed. 'Can't you see him? Or hear him?'

'What did it say?' Michael asked, keeping his back turned away from Dean, holding Sam's gaze.

'He said he wasn't dead…'

'It's just your head, messing with you, Sam. Fight it, you have to push it away.'

'Sam, look at me! I'm your brother, why the hell would you believe him instead of me?' Dean demanded; desperate and not a little hurt that Michael had so easily won Sam's trust away from his brother.

'How?' Sam asked, flinching away from his brother's words, still staring at Michael.

Michael made an impressive show of looking helpless, and earnest to help. 'You're the expert, Sam. Didn't you say something about salt, for spirits? Do you think that would help?'

Dean followed the direction Michael was pointing and noticed, for the first time, a shotgun leaning casually against the wall behind Sam's chair. He swallowed. Rock salt to the chest had been agony, the last time. But then he had been healthy. He didn't want to find out what such treatment would do to skin that was already ruptured and inflamed, lungs that were already working overtime just to keep pulling oxygen in to fuel his body.

Michael picked up the gun, and swung it around. 'Tell me where to point it, Sam,' he said, making a show of directing it everywhere except at Dean. Sam pointed a shaking finger at Dean, and Michael followed it with the gun, but for some reason ensured that his aim was still off.

Sam plucked the shotgun from Michael's arms and pointed it straight at his brother. He was still shaking, but he somehow managed to hold the gun barrel steady. He faltered, and looked at Michael.

'I don't know if I can… I feel so guilty… I shot him once before…'

'You told me,' Michael reminded him softly, risking a sly glance at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

'You son of a bitch, Michael… so help me, I swear…'

'He's talking to you…' Sam muttered, shooting nervous glances from Michael to the focus of the shotgun.

'It's not real, Sam, trust me, I can't even see it…'

'Fuck you! Sam, listen to me, I'm real, damn it! I'm alive!'

Doubt flickered for the first time in Sam's eyes. Not enough, yet, but a start. Dean risked another step, and regretted it immediately. His legs gave way as pain washed over him, and he grunted, dropping to his knees.

'Dean…' Sam muttered, looking at him now with concern, rather than terror.

'I'm here, Sam…'

'Don't fall for it, Sam!' cried Michael, seeing that his hold on the younger brother was weakening. 'I warned you…'

Sam looked confused. He was stuck in the middle, suddenly; he didn't know who to believe. The shotgun in his hands was heavy and cold, and his finger was tensed so hard against the trigger that it was white and trembling. He tried to recap the facts: he had seen Dean die, hadn't he? He was almost sure of it, but it was hazy, like most details of the past few days: he couldn't say for sure. But Dean was dead: he couldn't be mistaken about that. He needed to learn to control his powers, Michael could help him, if he could just overcome his guilt and his grief. All that power, knowledge, and the substitute family that Michael had promised. The only way to move on from Dean's death. He could have it, if he pulled the trigger.

But Dean looked so solid, kneeling before him, with green eyes full of disbelief, pleading with him. He couldn't shoot something that looked so much like his brother, he had sworn he would never shoot Dean again. And he had always trusted Dean. Even if it was an illusion, it used Dean's voice, and Dean's face: his instinct was one of absolute trust.

'I know it's hard, Sam…' Michael whispered in his ear, 'but you have to let go.'

'I…'

'You have to…'

Dean glared at Michael, and looked past him to fix his brother's eye with his green stare. 'Sammy,' he said firmly. Nothing else, just 'Sammy'. But Sam heard the old, hated nickname and knew suddenly, beyond doubt, that whenever he had a choice between trusting Dean, and trusting someone else, he would _always _trust Dean.

The shotgun fell to the ground with a clatter, and Dean lurched forward, grasping his brother's hand. Sam felt the undeniable solidity of his brother's living flesh and gasped, choking with disbelief and amazement.

'You… you…' he gasped.

'Save it,' Dean cut him off, gasping as he struggled to his feet. Michael was advancing on them, murder written on his face. Sam spun round, and all the implications of what had happened struck him at once in the form of an emotion too powerful for words. He expressed it, instead, in action. His fist swung round at hurricane pace, colliding viciously with Michael's pale, thin face. The student collapsed backwards, hitting the dirt floor with a heavy thud. Sam felt his knuckles crack, and knew his hand would be bruised from the violent impact, but didn't care. It was worth it.

Sam slung his brother's arm over his shoulders, and the pair struggled out of the dilapidated building together.

The walk back to the Impala was a painful one for Dean: the elation of having found Sam gave him energy, but his body no longer had the strength to support it. He leaned on Sam, grateful for the reassuring presence by his side.

'You're gonna have to fill me in… Dean, I'm so sorry I nearly killed you…'

'Sammy, you didn't…' Dean croaked, lowering himself into the car. Sam blinked, looking, if possible, even more confused. 'Long, long story. I'll tell you later.'

He settled back in the seat of his beloved car, and for the first time in days enjoyed natural, peaceful sleep.

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_It's not quite over yet. Review!! Please! Or I'll sulk. : ( _


	10. Who to blame

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 10**

Sam tried to persuade Dean that he should go back to hospital, but, unlike Eleanor, he lacked the stubbornness to compete with his brother in arguments of this type. They returned to the motel room.

The Impala was silent during the journey, but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence: the Winchesters were simply enjoying the calm reassurance of one another's company, particularly Sam, who was still half afraid that he would soon wake up into the world in which Dean was dead. His brother's apparent resurrection seemed too lucky to be true. Whenever he felt it safe to take his eyes off the road, he flicked his gaze sideways to check that Dean was still there. He exhaled in relief every time he saw his brother still sitting there.

Despite Dean's wounds, and both of their exhaustion, the brothers sat up for most of the night, catching up. Sam was horrified when he realised how easily he had been duped. Even after Dean had told the whole story, he carefully recapped from the beginning, not quite believing what he heard.

'He kidnapped you?'

Dean hesitated. 'Kidnapped' sounded like something that happened to damsels in distress, and he didn't want to admit to it. He shrugged, reluctantly. 'Yeah, I guess… sort of.'

Sam laughed, and the sound was surprising, but very welcome in Dean's ears. 'What? You were _sort of _kidnapped? Just… slightly kidnapped?'

'Shut up.'

They exchanged sleepy grins. It felt so good to be reunited.

'So, Michael… attacked you?' Sam continued, adapting his choice of words to go on with his recap.

'Yeah,' Dean grunted. He was lying back on the hard bed, bandages changed; dosed with painkillers, and very comfortable, considering that he had nearly died only a few days ago.

'He wanted you to think you had done it. All the messages before that were just to… sort of, set the scene, draw you in. He killed Louise and Philip, entirely for our benefit. Little prick.' Dean spat the last words with great relish.

'So why was I writing on the walls?'

'He has some kind of… telepathy, or something. I think he's only powerful enough to influence you when you're already asleep, but he made you write it. He could have made you write anything, he didn't need to relate it to the murders, but he wanted to make sure we would investigate.'

'He's like me…' Sam muttered, suddenly serious.

'What?' Dean asked sharply, looking up. 'How is he like you? You have some psychopath tendencies I don't know about?'

'No… well, probably not. I mean, his mother died. In the same way as ours, I think. You remember Max? He was the same… The thing we're looking for… seems like it targets people with… unusual abilities.'

Dean was silent for a moment, digesting this information. 'You sure?' he asked eventually, glancing sideways at his brother. 'About his mother?'

'Pretty much. Hey Dean… that makes two others we've met now, both screwed up. You think I could end up… the same way?'

Dean turned fully to glare at his brother. 'You remember you asked me that before?'

'Yes.'

'You remember my answer.'

'Yeah, but, now there's more evidence…'

'Hasn't changed.'

'Sure?'

'Yep.'

There was a pause. Dean's tone had made it absolutely clear that there could be no dispute on this point. After a short hesitation, he turned his head back towards Sam, having slumped back onto his pillows, and asked,

'Sam? At the hospital… what happened, when you left?'

Sam shifted uncomfortably. Of all the times he had been taken in by Michael, that was possibly the most shameful.

'I saw the doctor coming… and, I just freaked, man. Michael offered to speak to him for me… and, hell, I was just so screwed up right then. I let him. He came back in, and he was all sympathy. Told me you'd died, and how sorry he was.' He paused, disgusted with himself. He hadn't even checked, had just taken Michael's lies at face value.

'Sam, it's okay,' Dean said quietly, watching his brother's face carefully. 'If it had been the other way round… let's just say I wouldn't have been in full command of my mental faculties…'

'Still… I should have…'

'Hindsight is twenty-twenty,' Dean pointed out, twitching an eyebrow. 'What happened next?'

'He suggested we go out and get some fresh air. Asked me what I was gonna do now, and I just broke down. I didn't have a clue. He said he knew a group of people who were looking for… people like us. That they would train us and help us understand how our… powers worked. I just… didn't know what else I was gonna do, man. I don't believe I was so gullible.'

'Did you ever see these people?'

'No… they were gonna come meet us, though. But then you came. I guess if you hadn't then…'

'But I did. Who cares what might have happened? It didn't.'

Sam stopped, and nodded. After a pause, he added, 'I'm really glad you came, Dean.'

'Whoa. Stop there. No chick flick moments.'

'Yeah, whatever. Love you too.'

Dean grunted in assent, and Sam smiled. From Dean, that was as good as 'I love you.'

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Bullied by Sam, Dean reluctantly visited the hospital the following morning. He wouldn't let them admit him, but he submitted to a check up, change of bandages and general examination, largely to please Sam. Waiting grumpily in the cubicle, he was surprised and pleased when it was none other than Eleanor who appeared through the curtain with an armful of clean bandages.

'It's you!' she exclaimed, dropping half of her load on the floor, allowing Sam to gallantly stoop and pick them up for her.

'Look, Eleanor, I'm not dead,' Dead grinned, with an infuriating smugness which would have earned a slap if anybody else had tried it. Still, Eleanor made every effort to look disapproving, but failed to hide her relief.

'That's nothing to be showing off about. You are reckless and insane, and… intolerable, and… stupid, and…' She trailed off, lost in his eyes.

'And?' he prompted. 'Don't stop, I was enjoying your list of my character flaws…'

'And arrogant,' she concluded, laughing.

He grinned at her playfully. 'Ah, come on. You're glad I'm not dead, admit it.'

She grinned back at him, rolling her eyes. She laughed, and tilted her head from side to side, as if weighing up the idea. Eventually, she looked directly into his eyes, and whispered an answer. 'I'm glad you're not dead.'

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Michael blinked as the vibrant light invaded his peaceful unconsciousness. Shifting carefully on the uneven floor, he sat up. He jaw ached, and he wondered whether Sam had broken it. Various expletives occurred to him. He had been so close; to fail at that final hurdle, before Sam finally joined the 'family', was excruciating. He knew he should have made sure Dean was dead. He had underestimated the older brother… just because he lacked Sam's supernatural power, didn't mean he was easy meat.

'You awake? About time,' stated a cold, female voice, behind his slumped head. He spun round in the dirt of the floor, and found himself sitting at the feet of a young woman. He recognised her: she was the one who had spoken to him several months ago, who had entrusted him with this mission, and who had been scheduled to pick up Sam and Michael that day, to initiate them into the 'family.' She had been friendly and businesslike the last time they had met, but now, gazing down at him, her face was twisted with contempt.

'What happened to Sam Winchester, Michael?' she asked, in a soft voice which reminded him forcibly of the hissing of a snake. 'I could have sworn you told me he was here with you. Sounded pretty pleased with yourself, too.'

'I… he was here. It wasn't my fault, it was the brother.'

'I explained to you that we needed to take the brother out of the equation. You told me you had it covered.'

'I'll get him to come back,' Michael promised, without any idea of how to do that now that he had lost Sam's trust.

'Really? I don't believe you, Michael,' she drawled. 'I don't think we need you to join the family if you're not trustworthy. Family is based on trust, Michael, we all have to learn…'

'But I'm psychic, too. I can be valuable to you…'

'Michael,' she simpered indulgently, 'you're nothing compared to Sam. It's both or neither, I'm sorry.'

'But… I don't have anyone else…'

'That's not my fault,' she said. Then she paused, and reflected. 'Well, at least, it's not my problem.'

'Please, you promised. I've never had a family before,' he pleaded. He knew he was begging, on his knees, in the dust. He knew he looked pathetic, but he didn't care; he was desperate. He had never wanted anything more.

'You failed us Michael. I'm sorry.'

She didn't look sorry, or show any sign of remorse, as she turned stiffly on the heels of her heavy boots, and left the crumbling cabin. Crouched on the floor, sobbing, Michael heard her car start outside, and knew all was lost: his one chance at belonging to a family, dissolved into dust. He didn't know who to turn to. But he knew who to blame.

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_Sorry it was short. Just seemed like the right place to end a chapter!_

_Reviiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeewwww!! _


	11. The injustice of it all

**Unseen, unheard**

**Chapter 11**

It was the Winchester way: case closed, pack up and move on, literally and emotionally. The traumas of the last few weeks could be dismissed and locked into the past as soon as they loaded their battered luggage into the Impala and set off for a new town, a new challenge, the beginning of a new story. It wasn't always easy, but on this occasion, both brothers were only too willing to put the town to their rear mirror and flee, bad memories drowned out with throbbing rock music.

As soon as they were clear of the woods which enshrouded the small town, Dean felt himself let out a long breath which he hadn't known he was holding. Fresh air, clear light… it was the taste of freedom. Somehow, those forests had made the town itself seem choked, claustrophobic and enclosed, cut off from the vastness of America. It was like breaking out of a shell.

Sam, too felt the release of leaving the town. He wasn't proud of the way he had behaved, despite Dean's assurances that nothing had been his fault; that anyone would have been taken in by Michael's manipulation. Still, Sam repeatedly found himself listing in his head all the times when he could have made a better choice, or should have picked up on some… wrongness in Michael's behaviour. He recalled pouring out his soul to the malicious teenager in the hospital waiting room, and felt a hot, sick swoop of nausea and shame wash through him.

Still, Michael was now nothing but a fading image, dulling and becoming less vivid with every short yard they put between the Impala's taillights and the edge of the town.

'So, any ideas where I'm driving to?' he asked, tilting his head over at Dean, who was taking advantage of his unusual position in the passenger seat to take complete control of the music. Apparently, his own 'house rules' didn't apply when Sam was driving. It was, after all, his car.

Dean shrugged and laughed. 'Nope. When we get to a turning, we'll flip a coin.'

Sam glanced at him sideways, half laughing, half incredulous. 'You serious?' he asked.

'Yeah, why not?' Dean grinned, satisfied with the cassette player for the present, and wriggling back in his seat in search of a comfortable position.

'Well… we could end up anywhere…'

'Where's your sense of adventure, Sammy? Anyway, we don't know where our next hunt's gonna be, and we sure as hell don't want to stay in that dive until we find one. So,' he shrugged again. 'One way's as good as another.'

Sam stuttered for a few seconds, protesting, but he failed, for once, to find a flaw in his brother's logic. 'Fine,' he conceded. 'Leaf on the wind…' he muttered.

'Damn straight,' Dean agreed, leaning back into the seat, and closing his eyes.

After a couple of minutes, Sam nudged him.

'We're at a junction. You got a coin?'

Dean grinned, and produced one out of a pocket in his jeans.

'Heads, left, tails, right,' he proposed, balancing the grimy coin on his thumbnail, ready to flip. Sam nodded, gazing at the small metal disc as though mesmerised.

Dean flipped it up, watched it spin once, twice, in mid air, then caught it neatly and slapped it onto the back of his left hand. Heads.

'Left, then,' he concluded, shrugging at Sam and grinning. Sam flicked his left indicator on and swung the wheel round between his hands. It seemed as good a direction as any.

Seemed…

A low slung, muddy vehicle followed the Impala round the left turn, and maintained enough distance behind the black car to be unthreatening. But every time the Winchesters made a random turn, the second car opted for the same direction.

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Eventually, Sam determined exactly what the flaw was in Dean's ingenious plan: after a series of turns decided by the same grimy 10-cent piece, the roads had become narrower and narrower until it seemed little more than a farm track.

'Dean, when I agreed to your crazy idea… I didn't really expect to be asking the coin _every time there was a junction._ Couldn't we just stick to… uh… actual roads?'

Dean chuckled, and paused before answering. When they had rounded another corner, he sat up, suddenly alert. 'I hate to admit it… but you may actually have a point this time, Sammy.'

Sometimes in the recent storms, lightening had struck a tree, splitting it down the middle. The bulk of it had collapsed sideways, and now its mighty trunk and lush, leafy branches were splayed out across the road. It was completely blocked.

'Not your lucky coin, I'm thinking, Dean,' Sam commented, with a wry look at his brother.

Dean nodded slowly. 'Maybe not.'

Sam braked, and the Impala rolled to a halt. He sat up in his seat, stretching his neck and glancing around him to gage the width of the road: not very wide. It wasn't going to be an easy turn.

The dusty vehicle came up behind them with a burst of acceleration, and as Sam was carefully reversing to make space to swing the car round, the other car's bumper slammed into the rear end of the Impala, shoving it closer to the fallen tree. Both brothers cried out in protest, swinging round in their seats as the indignant vehicle lurched forwards. Without looking closely at the car behind, Dean burst out of his door to give the other driver a dressing-down for driving like a lunatic, and to check for damage. Clearly this person had no respect for his beautiful car. Sam followed, frowning. _There goes Dean's good mood, _he thought.

Then the unlucky lunatic surfaced from behind his muddy wind shield and faced the brothers. His thin, pale face, twisted with hatred, was a shock to the Winchesters.

Dean recovered his composure quickly and glared at him stony faced. _Not you again…_

Sam, on the other hand, felt a cold fist clench in his gullet at the sight of his former 'friend', and found himself panicking, fight-or-flight reflexes kicking in immediately. After the collision, there wasn't sufficient space between the Impala and the tree to make a turn, and the land dropped away too steeply either side of the road to risk any escape manoeuvres. Flight, then, was not possible. He realised his fingers were aching: they were pressed so tightly into balled fists.

'He's frightened of me…' Michael croaked, smiling, addressing Dean. He seemed gratified, pleased that he could still make Sam uncomfortable. Sam immediately adapted his expression and growled angrily at the teen before him.

'What do you want, Michael? I think I made it clear that it was over between us,' he spat, sounding a lot like his brother as he erected a cocky façade over his nervousness.

Dean seemed to appreciate this, and half smiled, glancing sideways at his little brother. He turned his gaze back toward Michael, and saw that his pale face was still marred with the purple print of Sam's knuckles. _Proud of you, Sammy._

Michael was trembling, seized with a mixture of terror and fury as he found himself facing off against the two Winchesters. He narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth to still their anxious chattering. His knuckles were white; gripping the black metal handle of a gun as if it was a lifeline. He looked down at the object in his hand, which was hidden from the brothers by the open car door. Studying it carefully, he tried to decide where would be best to point it. He heard a rush of movement as one or other of the brothers opted to make a move, a quickly made his decision.

Both Winchesters froze instantaneously as soon as the gun appeared. They had both seen, countless times, the carnage a bullet could cause when it burrowed into flesh. They had seen it, and they didn't underestimate it. Two sets of eyes followed the gun barrel warily.

Apparently, Michael had made a better assessment of the Winchester psyche than they gave him credit for: his main grievance, as he saw it, was against Dean, who was long overdue for death's embrace. Still, something told him to point his weapon firmly at Sam's forehead.

Sam swallowed, feeling something contract in his throat. He could feel the invisible line running out of the end of the metal barrel and attaching itself to the skin between his eyebrows: the vacant path of the bullet. He sensed the end of the line, pressing against his head, holding him in place. His eyes followed the imaginary line, back past the end of the gun and up the steady arm to Michael's pale face. It was distorted with hatred, trembling with anger, and red around the eyes with desolation. He wasn't looking at Sam, though his arm and its lethal burden stayed steady as a rock in position. He was looking at Dean.

'You ruined my life,' he hissed, spitting venom.

Dean had his hands spread; palm outwards, in front of him, and his eyes were flicking from Sam to Michael in nervous, calculating concentration. At Michael's words, he blinked in genuine surprise.

'You nearly killed me, then you kidnapped my brother and made him think he'd done it. And _I_ ruined _your_ life?'

Michael snarled, and shook his right arm slightly as if to emphasise his position of power. Dean acknowledged this, taking a step back so that the backs of his legs were brushing against the Impala.

'I was so close… I could have had a family… but you… _you_…' Michael injected the word with so much venom that it seemed to burn his lips as he spat it out.

Dean wasn't sure whether Michael was still talking to him or to himself, but he figured that as long as the freak was busy talking, he wasn't shooting Sam, so it was to be encouraged.

'Look, Michael…' he began, floundering for something to say which might placate the teenager. Most of his repertoire was more likely to get him even more pissed… 'I'm really sorry… that you don't have a family. That's too bad – really,' he added urgently, when Michael's eyes narrowed, suspicious of sarcasm. 'But…' Dean continued, taking a cautious step forward, 'if you want my opinion-,' (Michael's expression proclaimed that he _didn't_ want Dean's opinion, but he said nothing) '- I don't think you would have found that family as… genuine… as you hoped. Family's… built in, like an instinct. You can't… sign up to it.'

_When the hell did I become counsellor to this freak? _Dean wondered, listening to himself.

'You don't know what it's like to be alone!' Michael spat, his face crumpled in anguish.

'And I don't want to find out!' Dean shot back, risking another step forward. That steady arm and the coal-black metal pointed directly at Sam's forehead was making him decidedly edgy. He took a deep breath, and carefully softened his voice, fixing Michael's gaze with his eyes.

'Look, please… I'm sorry that you're lonely… but hurting him won't make it any better. It's not Sam's fault that you don't have a family…'

Michael sobbed, quietly, his arm shaking slightly, showing the first sign of uncertainty. Dean took another step. Only a yard or so separated him from Michael now.

'Please,' he repeated, softly. 'You can't blame Sam.'

Time slowed. Michael's lip trembled, and his head tilted forwards in a tiny nod, almost imperceptibly.

'Yeah?' Dean prompted hoarsely.

Michael was overcome by a wave of despair, and he knew Dean was right: more murders wouldn't help him. His hand trembled, and his arm moved, jerkily and uncertainly, downwards and round, away from Sam. Both Winchesters sighed loudly in relief, slumping their tense bodies. The sound grated on Michael's fragile nerves. His despair was consumed in a furious rage at the injustice of it all: the fact that he was alone, and that he couldn't help himself, even the fact that Dean was right where he himself had been wrong. Rationality left him in a surge of frustration. He gritted his teeth, and tightened his hand on the gun handle, swinging it up again directly in front of him. The invisible line this time bored into Dean's chest, through his shirt to the skin that still wore the words 'Forgive me,' etched in angry scars.

Instead of returning to the unbearable vice-like tension of before, Dean felt himself stimulated into action, out of patience with Michael's games.

He heard Sam cry out in wordless protest as he took one final step forward and seized Michael's hand and the gun between both of his hands. He grasped the cold steel and equally cold flesh and held them in place, pressed into his own chest. The distance between him and Michael was little more then the length of the gun.

'Fire it, then,' he snarled, all gentleness and understanding utterly gone from his voice. 'Fire it, if you think it'd help.'

'Dean, what-,' Sam objected, somewhere nearby.

Dean kept his stony gaze fixed into Michael's eyes, and saw the teen squirming, trying to escape his intense stare.

'Would it make you feel better?' he went on savagely, remorselessly. 'Did it work with Louise Brandon and Philip Basing? Did killing them make you feel a bit better about your pathetic little life?'

'Shut up,' Michael whispered, still trying to sound in control, and looking everywhere but at Dean. He found himself wondering which of them was the captor and which the captive.

'Didn't work, huh? So why would it work this time?'

'I could kill you in a second,' Michael reminded Dean, as if warning him not to push his luck.

'What would that do for ya?'

'Revenge,' Michael hissed. His finger tightened on the trigger.

'Would it help, though? Would it make you less alone?'

Michael's face crumpled, and he screwed up his eyes. Dean felt the cold hand go limp between his fingers, and stepped back, yanking the gun from Michael's unresisting fingers. To his surprise, the teen dropped to his knees and collapsed sideways, revealing Sam, who was holding a heavy branch from the fallen tree. Dean blinked.

'Nice move,' he muttered.

'Thanks.'

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'I still say it's a shame I didn't get to kill the bastard,' Dean muttered, as they drove away.

'You don't mean that.'

'Hell yeah, I do.'

'Dean, you don't want to become a killer.'

'Really? In his case, I'm pretty sure I'd enjoy becoming a killer...'

'Dean…'

Dean grinned, unable to keep a straight face. Sam snorted with exasperated laughter.

They had left Michael's car at the entrance to the blocked road, with the unconscious teen sprawled across the back seat. Sam placed an anonymous phone call to the police, informing them of his location. Dean had claimed Michael's weapon as compensation for the teen's crimes, arguing that it was 'a nice gun,' and 'it might come in useful.' He also scrawled a note admitting to the murders of Louise Brandon and Philip Basing, and pinned in to Michael's jacket. Sam saw this and laughed sceptically.

'Dean, I don't think the cops are gonna take your word for it.'

'Well, they've got to at least look into it. Maybe they'll find some evidence to back it up. If we're lucky, he'll go down for murder…'

'And if we're not?'

'Worst case scenario, he goes back to school and lives in his institution, but people will be careful of him if he's been suspected of murder. Anyway, I don't think he'll try to kill anyone else…'

'What? Come on, Dean. He was about 3 seconds from killing you. He _would_ have, if I hadn't hit him.'

'No way. I was totally getting through to him.'

'Admit it, Dean! I saved your ass!'

'Yeah, dream on, Sammy. He'd already changed his mind when you hit him. Didn't need your help at all.'

'Whatever. You just can't admit you're wrong,' Sam muttered.

'I'm not wrong!'

'Stubborn jerk.'

'Sulky brat.'

Sam gasped in indignation. 'Ass.'

Dean grinned.

'You better believe it, bitch.'

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_Fin_

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_Hope that wasn't too abrupt an ending for you. I think I answered most of the questions – some might need a bit of perceptive reading, though, and I'm happy to help if you're confused! _

_Anyway, THANK YOU SO MUCH everyone who's read, and especially those who reviewed. Those who have been sending reviews for several different chapters, THANK YOU, you're my favourite people! – you know who you are. _

_Hope you enjoyed. Thoughts and comments on the last chapter will be VERY much appreciated!_


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